Crooning in Crimson
by pkmndaisuki
Summary: Sequel to Vacant Room  Having returned to Baker Street, the Consulting Detective and his blogger, and new father, have been approached with a case to investigate a mysterious faction, the Red-Headed League. The Game continues!
1. A Nice Little Scene

**A/N:** This is a continuation of my speculative AU. Again, slow start, but this is more to set the scene than anything else. This time, the story is based around "The Adventure of The Red-Headed League" as well as the Granada interpretation, "The Red-Headed League" episode 2 of series 1. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Granada. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"John. ...John? John!" the voice of my flatmate calls from the sitting room of good old 221b. I sort of stumble my way out of bed, glancing at the clock to see that it's about 9:15. I sit up and see that little Sherlock - my son - is not in his cot. Sherlock - the boy's namesake - must have him downstairs. That would explain his pleas for help and the crying.

I sigh, drag on my maroon dressing gown I got as a wedding gift from Mycroft a year ago, and head downstairs.

"What is it?" I ask. Sherlock is holding the boy at arm's length with a look of disgust.

"He won't stop crying! I don't understand it. How can something so small produce such volume?" Typical comment, Sherlock.

"Well, for one thing, you're holding him wrong. You've seen me hold him. If you do the same, he might be a little more agreeable." Sherlock gives me a look that plainly says "You've _got_ to be joking."

"What are you even doing with him in the first place? If anyone but you had woken me up, I'd have thought he was kidnapped. Not the best feeling for a new parent. Especially in light of recent events..."

"I was trying to ensure he didn't wake you. I saw that he was about to cry, so I took him down here to figure out _why _he was going to cry," he explains.

"How did you know he was about to cry?"

"I saw his lip twitching and his eyes were becoming watery." I sigh, place my hand over my face and try again.

"Okay, let's try this then: How did _you_ know he was about to cry?" I say, trying to make the point that I don't know how he managed to be in my room to find out.

"Oh, that. I was watching you sleep." I stare at him for a good half a minute or so, dumbfounded.

"You were _what_?" I ask. Watching me... God, he really does act like a stalker sometimes.

"Watching you. More, watching out for you," he elaborates. Correction: an overly protective stalker. I sigh again, scratching the back of my head. I walk over and take my son in my arms. Thankfully, this is enough to get him to stop crying. This time.

"There, there, little one. Uncle Sherlock was just trying to make sure you were fine. That's all," I whisper to him. My flatmate looks at me with a questioning look.

"'_Uncle_ Sherlock?' Really?" he asks me. I nod. He then starts sitting cross-legged on the couch, rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands under his chin in his usual "deep in thought" pose. He glances up at me for a second as I'm bouncing little Sherlock. After a pause, he finally speaks up. "I... suppose I could get used to that," he says. I smile.

"Good. Then, while I have my arms full of infant, here, would you please put on a pot of coffee?"

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

After John and I have woken up a bit and the other Sherlock has been fed, John gets ready to run some errands, but not before gathering the dirty laundry to be taken to the laundromat. Once again, the baby is left to me while he does this, and once again, it's crying.

"How do I stop it?" I ask as John's gathering clothes.

"Hold him properly, Sherlock!" he calls from his room. Easier said than done. "Do you know how?"

"Yes, of course I know how. I've seen you do it, as you earlier stated. I'm just not a fan of physical contact." John peeks out from the stairwell at this.

"Oh, please. On your first day here, you let both myself and Mrs. Hudson _hug_ you, for God's sake! And, you hugged back, in a way. I don't think holding a baby should be much of a problem for you." Fine. Be that way. I stare at the child, sigh and bring him closer to me. I then fold my arms as John does when holding him.

"There, I'm holding him _properly_. He's still crying, though."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious, I can hear him from here," John says, arms full of laundry.

"What else is there to do? He's not hungry, since he just ate. No need to change him, so what is there to do?" I ask. Childcare is one of the things I don't have a folder for in my hard drive. Maybe I ought to add one for John's sake.

"Well, you could try music. Babies like music."

"I would play my violin if I didn't have an 'armful of infant' as you called it earlier."

"Sing then." Two worse words have never been commanded of me.

"I don't sing," I assure John. He looks skeptical.

"You? Don't sing? With such a smooth speaking voice as you've got? Good Lord, it's like a jaguar swallowed a cello!" Now it's my turn to look skeptical.

"I don't see what jungle cats and cellos have to do with my voice. And besides, just because my speaking is eloquent-sounding doesn't mean I can carry a tune."

"Want me to sing, then?"

"No. Absolutely not. I've heard you sing when you're in the bath. Atrocious." John scoffs at me.

"Oh, gee, thanks," he says dryly, and starts to leave the room. As soon as he clears the door, I sigh and decide to submit myself to fate. I clear my throat, take a deep breath...

"_Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are._"

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

I can hardly believe it. Is... Sherlock Holmes actually singing? A nursery rhyme, no less? I put my ear closer to the door, which is still ajar, to try to hear.

"_Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky_," he continues. It seems he's trying to rush through the song, as if he doesn't really want to do it.

"_Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are._" And then all sounds stop.

My God, he did it. He actually comforted a kid. Is the apocalypse coming today? Thought that wasn't 'til December.

"You're still out there, John, aren't you?"

I snap to attention, dropping a couple of socks as I do so. I pick them up and peek back into the sitting room.

"Yeah. Sorry." Sherlock gives me one of his quicker smiles as he holds little Sherlock. It's actually a nice scene. Little Sherlock is practically drifting to sleep as Sherlock holds him. Sherlock's even bouncing him a bit as I do.

It looks right. Him holding my son like that. He looks like a parent.

Of course, he'd probably chuck his skull at my head if I told him that.

Either that, or die laughing.


	2. A Puzzler

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

Laughter? Why do I hear laughter outside? I get up from my desk and go to the main lobby. I see that Donovan is laughing her head off while an older rotund ginger bloke is looking rather offended.

"I don't see what's so funny here, Miss Donovan!" he shouts. "If you're just going to sit here an' laugh, I'll take my case elsewhere."

"Now, hold on, sir," I say, walking up to them. Donovan quickly shuts up. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"And you are?" he asks.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Nice to meet you, Mr..." He puts out one bulky hand to meet mine.

"Wilson, Inspector. Jabez Wilson." Detective Inspector, I correct internally. He shakes rather vigorously. "I have a peculiar case that I need a bit of help with. If you'd be so kind as to hear me out?"

"Sure. Let's just step in my office, shall we?" I offer, and I lead Mr. Wilson inside, giving a warning glance to Donovan. We get inside and I close the door. "So, Mr. Wilson, please. What's bothering you?" I sit myself on the side of my desk while Mr. Wilson sits in one of my chairs opposite.

"Well, have you ever heard of the Red-Headed Leauge?"

"Can't say that I have, sir." A league of gingers? What's that got to do with anything?

"I hadn't either until about two months ago. You see, I run a little pawn shop just down the road. My assistant, Vince, told me about it. Here's the advert from the paper," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of newspaper. He hands it to me, and I unfold it.

"'Vacancy. The Red-Headed League is looking for a potential new member. Must be willing to work every day as asked. Must be 25 years of age or older. Must have naturally red hair. No wigs or dyes. Inquire to Mr. Duncan Ross...' Huh. Odd advert, I must admit," I told him. I fold it back to the way it was and hand it back.

"That's what I thought. But, Vince insisted I try for it. I fit all the requirements to a 'T' he said. He reminded me that I was looking for a second job to help accquire new items for the shop, which was true. I then accepted Vince's offer.

"The two of us went to see Mr. Ross as the advert described. Believe it or not, Inspector-" Detective Inspector "-there were probably hundreds of red-haired men lined up to get in. Vince managed to get me to the front, and I met with Mr. Ross. He gave me a once-over, taking careful attention of my hair, and led me into his office.

"'You'll pardon the precaution, sir,' he said and yanked at my head. I gave a cry. He smiled. 'Ah, your eyes are tearing. Good! We've been fooled by wigs and dyes before. Even though we explicitly stated against them in the advert, one can't be too careful,' he explained. I agreed. We sat down.

"'So, what is your name?'

"'Wilson. Jabez.' He stared at me kind of funny. "It's a family name," I explained. He jotted it down onto a piece of paper.

"'Do you have a family?'

"'I am a widower. No children.'

"'I suppose that adds to your availibility... Are you availible?'

"Yes. I have a pawn shop open most days, but I can take time off, thanks to having an assistant.'

"'Wonderful,' he said and then went out to the line. 'The position has been filled,' he shouted, and the crowd went into an uproar. He asked for my card and said he'd ring me when he was ready to have me work. Vince then led me out the back way. It was the oddest day."

I'm having a hard time staying awake. This man's voice isn't that entertaining. Nor is his story. God, can this man ever drone! Still, he has a point to make. Must have if he's come to the Yard about it. "So, you took the job. What'd you do there?" I ask, hoping his answer will be more exciting. It's not.

"Data entry. I was to create webpages for them on the subject of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica!" he says to me. I contain my groaning to inside my head. "I was put in a private office with a computer and typed for several hours, only taking an hour break for lunch. Once it came time to close, I saved my progress, shut down the computer, and left. Mr. Ross locked up behind me. This went on for several days. Oh, the work was very interesting!" he exclaims jubillantly.

Interesting my arse. I have to shift myself in a precarious position sitting on my desk to keep myself awake. If I fall asleep, I'll topple over. The ginger continues. Pretty sure I start zoning out every once and again.

"I started in the A's. Abacus..."

My eyelids droop.

"Acacia..."

I blink to stay awake.

"Adamellite..."

I shake my head to focus.

"Aerodynamics..."

I fight off a yawn.

"Affination..."

"Right, right. I get it. All through the A's section." I know I'm sounding rude, but I've got to keep awake and focus if I'm to figure out what I'm helping this guy with. "So, something weird must've happened at some point. That's why you're here, right?" Mr. Wilson nods sharply.

"Yes, yes. I'd just finished the A's and left for the day. I was going to get to working on the B's the next day, when I'd found that the door was locked. There was a laminated piece of paper saying that the League had been abolished!" he cried. I look at him skeptically.

"So... What, they just disappeared? No trace of 'em? Poof?"

"Pretty much. I asked a man in an adjacent office if he'd seen Mr. Ross. He said he'd never heard of the man!" That got my attention.

"Had he heard of the league?"

"Yes, he had. He said they'd moved. But when I went to where he said they were, I found a joke shop!" I guess this is where Donovan started laughing. I can't help but sputter a chuckle myself. Wilson looks offended. "Well, I didn't come here to be laughed at twice! Or even once! I'm leaving!" he said. I hopped up and stood in front of him.

"Wait, Mr. Wilson, please! Terribly sorry. I know someone who wouldn't miss this case for the world."

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

My phone is buzzing and John's still bagging up the laundry. His son is asleep, content in my arms. I seem to remember John mentioning a juggling act with parenting, or something to that effect. Thankfully, my feet are pretty dextrous. I take hold of my phone with my left foot, positioning the edge of it between my hallux and my long toe. I bend my left knee and turn that leg so as to place the phone on my right knee. It works, believe it or not. Using my left hand, I then check to see what the text is.

_Got a puzzler for you from a Mr. Jabez Wilson. Seems right up your street. G. Lestrade_

I quickly do an internet search of Mr. Wilson. I find he has a pawn shop Not too far from Tower 42 where Seb works. Interesting. I store that little tidbit to memory and text back.

_I'll take the case. Send Mr. Wilson to Baker Street. SH_

"John," I call quietly, so as not to disturb the boy, lest his voice pierces my ears again.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"Yeah?" I ask, walking back to the sitting room. Sherlock somehow has moved his phone from the table to his knee all without disturbing my son. Gonna have to ask him how he did that. Could be useful.

"I have a case. May require legwork. Can you check if Mrs. Husdon's still in?" he asks me. I sigh.

"Sherlock, she's our landlady, not our in-home nanny."

"Fine, then. Could you text that Regina girl or whoever she is and tell her to come round? Unless you'll skip the errands and stay with him."

"Rebecca," I correct him. "And, sure, I'll text her. I'll try to finish my errands as quick as I can. It's just the shopping and laundry need to be done."

"Right."

_Morning Rebecca. Could you come round to Baker Street today? I need a sitter while I'm doing errands and Sherlock's on a case. JW_

_No problem! I'll be over in a jif! -Rebecca_

I look in the corner of my phone screen and see that if I don't leave now, I'll be late. I hope Rebecca can handle Sherlock. Both of them.


	3. A Refreshing Case

**A/N:** Just as there was an 'all-John' chapter in the last fic, here's an all-Sherlock one. (And, for any Disney fans in the audience, see if you can pick up on the subtle 'The Great Mouse Detective' reference!) The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

John's left. Mrs. Hudson's gone out as well. Regan hasn't shown up yet, so I'm left with the 'minature me' John keeps calling him for some reason or another. I have a feeling it's one of his pop-culture things, but I've no desire to inquire upon it. I don't want my head crammed with more of his ludicrous film nonsense. Especially not after that Bond marathon.

In any case, I hear a knock at the door. It's not a knock I recognise, and it's too low on the door to be anyone I do know. It could either be my client, or it could be Roquelle. I go down to the front door. Standing before me is a university-age blonde girl. Shorter than John by about four inches. Modest weight, fair skinned. Looks a bit sleep deprived. Must have worked long hours on something. Going by the state of her hands, which seem incredibly soft on the backs, but calloused fingertips, she works with children often, mostly babies given her faint scent of baby powder and soft hands, as well as working with a wooden object cramped between her fingers. And only in her right hand. There's a dull colour beneath some of her fingernails, multicoloured stains on the edges of her hands and a bit on the underside of her jaw.

Art student who babysits children as a side occupation.

"You must be the sitter John keeps raving about," I say casually. I'm hoping that by simply referring to her by her occupation will prompt her to tell me her name, since I can't seem to put it to memory.

"Rebecca," she says.

"Yes, Rebecca. Do come in. Little Sherlock's in his playpen right now." A gift from Mycroft to celebrate the sale of John's old house to him. Still don't get why he bought it.

"Okay, great! You want me to take him up to his room while you meet your client?" she offers. I turn to her in confusion.

"How did you know I was meeting someone? Let alone a client?" I inquire. She giggles. It's all high-pitched and girly. It's grating on my ears.

"Dr. Watson wrote it in his text to me!" Ah. That explains it.

"Very well. He'll probably be here soon." I then lead Rhoda to the sitting room. She lifts up little Sherlock and heads up to John's room.

"Holler if you need anything!" she calls.

"Sure," I respond. Addendum: AMERICAN art student who babysits children as a side occupation.

* * *

><p>I've been attempting to collapse the infant containment unit for the past three minutes with little success. I've put up all the rest of his little toys and picture books over by John's desk and laptop, but this utterly confusing contraption is quite the consternation. Who on earth invented this thing? I hear a knock at the door. I decide to abandon my efforts for the time being to concentrate on something I'm actually good at.<p>

"Mr. Wilson, I presume?" I ask. Standing before me is a very round red-haired man about John's height in a business-like suit holding a hat.

"Yes sir. And you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, if I'm not mistaken?" he replies. I nod.

"Do come in Mr. Wilson. How was China?" I ask. He gives me the most bewildered look.

"How on earth did you know I'd been there?" he questions. I chuckle.

"Your new ring. Embedded with what can only be Chinese jade. I'd recognise the kind of stone anywhere, given my... history with it. However, it was a custom job. A delicate one that you can't get around here. So, you must have been to the actual country."

"Excellent! Ah, your deductive skills are even greater than your friend at the Yard claimed!" he exclaimed. He must be referring to Lestrade, since I don't have much in the way of friends there. I set him down in one of the armchairs while I take to the sofa. Naturally, his eyes wander to the playpen.

"It's my flatmate's. He has a small child. Anyways," I begin, waving my hand dismissively, "what brought you here? What's your case?"

* * *

><p>I try my hardest to stifle any chance at laughter after hearing his story. It's pretty ridiculous. Though this "Duncan Ross" does prove of some interest.<p>

"You're about to laugh, aren't you? You'd be the third, if you did," he adds, rather disheartened.

"No, Mr. Wilson. I've no intention of laughing at your case. It's most... refreshing," I state, trying to find a good descriptor for what he's presented me with. "Now, then, this Vince of yours..."

"Yes, Vincent Spaulding is his full name."

"Right. Tell me more about him."

"Well, he's been out of university a few years now, probably not too much younger than you are. I suppose I pay him less than what he's worth, but he's satisfied with what I give him."

"Really, now? So, he's a good workman?"

"Quite. He's very tech-savvy, running our little website. Oh, sure he's got his faults. Always fidgeting with that mobile of his, taking photographs and insisting he work downstairs for our online sales as you can 'get the best lighting' for individual shots, or whatnot. But overall, he's a wonderful chap."

"Is he the only employee you have?"

"Yes. Just us. Outside of work hours, he'll sometimes call me at my home and chat about his social life. He seems to turn to me like a father figure, which is very flattering. I'm a widower, you see, no real family to speak of. Vince has become like a son to me," he concludes, getting a little teary-eyed over this strange man.

"What's he look like?"

"Oh, fairly tall. Round six feet, a little less. Sort of auburn hair. And, he has a white splotch on the right side of his neck. Not too noticeable, but he's had it since he was a child, he says."

I sit up a bit at this description. Such a marking is a bit peculiar.

"That will do, Mr. Wilson. Let's see... By Monday, this should be wrapped up. In the meantime, if anything else you think I ought to know comes up, do tell me." We both rise as I'm about to show him to the door.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Good day!" he calls as he leaves. After I close the door, I run back up and grab my scarf and coat.

"Rosalie! I'm going out. If John comes back before I do, tell him to text me!" I call.

"It's Rebecca!" she calls back. Right.


	4. An Embarrassment

**A/N**: The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Halfway through doing the shopping after dropping our clothes off at the cleaners, I find my phone going off in my pocket. Go me, forgetting to turn it to vibrate and having the theme to the Poirot series going off at full volume in the middle of Tesco's. Brilliant move, John.

"Hello? You don't normally ring," I say rather quietly to avoid drawing any more attention to myself while retroactively realising that by doing so, I'm acting even more conspicuously. Just can't win today, can I?

"Got a case. Meet me at the pawn shop down the street from Tower 42," Sherlock says rather hurriedly.

"Fine. Sure. But, why are you calling? You always text. And your voice sounds a bit hoarse. Catching a cold?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Just threw on my scarf a little tight."

"Must be an interesting one, huh?"

"If I didn't think so, I wouldn't have informed you."

"Of course not. I'll meet you there as soon as I finish the shopping. Of course, I might be late getting the laundry back..."

"Don't worry about that. I've called your sister. She's going to pick up the laundry and drop it off at our flat."

"Wha... Since when do you have my sister's number?"

"Copied it from your contacts. Hope you don't mind."

"That... that would mean you swiped my phone at some point. My phone. Don't believe this. You've swiped my laptop, my credit card..."

"Actually, that was you borrowing mine."

"And I swear you've been stealing my jumpers. You're like some kind of klepto. What of mine _haven't_ you stolen?"

"Your trousers. They'd never fit. Too wide and too short."

I stopped dead in my tracks with the cart. Why on earth would he mention... never mind. Too insulted to process that.

"Okay, I get that I'm at least six inches shorter than you, but I'm _not _that wide! _You're_ just rail thin. Besides, I actually have _muscle_, unlike you."

"And how am I supposed to find that out?"

I pinch my brow and close my eyes. I count to three in my head.

"...I'm not even going to answer that. Look, I'll be right out. Just let me buy our groceries, and I'll be right over."

"Are you alright? You counted again, didn't you."

"Okay, now I see why you prefer texting. I'll be out in a minute. See you then. Bye." And before he could say anything else to possibly get under my skin, I hang up. This time, I go to an aisle where I can be waited on by an actual person. Who caught almost all of my end of the conversation it seems, given how she's staring at me.

"Lover's quarrel?" she asks, innocently enough. My ears start getting hot, so I think I'm blushing.

"Lover- no, no, no. No. Flatmate being a tosser," I explain quickly and clear my throat which feels oddly dry at the moment. She slowly nods giving me a look that says 'right' very slowly.

Just once, only once, can I _please _go to Tesco's with_out_ being embarrassed?

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

When John finally comes into view, he's walking rather swiftly in my direction. His shoulders are raised. Also forward a bit. His brow is furrowed. Mouth shaped like a line. He's upset. And I have a suspicion it's my fault. Again.

I honestly never know what to say when he's like this. I suppose I could just say "sorry" but I don't think that'll quite cover it. I've been upsetting him somewhat often all this week. I told him I'd _curtail_ my experiments, not _eradicate_ them. I even cleaned up afterwards, as well. The next day, I was bored, and John didn't want me shooting the wall again, so I found an old set of darts for the wall. I was unable to find the board to go with it, is all. I then started using an old slipper I found about the flat and tacked it to the mantle to use for a place to keep newspaper clippings from old police beat articles. How was I to know that John bought the slippers for _himself_ and that I was to use _the box they came in_ for that purpose? He was muffled when carrying them in that day. (For the record, the slipper is still there. He's yet to reclaim it.) And now, I've gone and probably not only embarrassed him in the store, but I'm fairly certain that I've insulted him somehow. Probably with what I thought was a witty comment. I never said he was that wide. Just that he was wider than me. I would have thought that my mentioning that his trousers wouldn't fit me would indicate that.

There must be some way for me to properly apologise. I'll make that a side case apart from this one. "How to Make Up to John For My Recent Social Idiocy."

When he reaches me, he's about to say something. Probably another utterance of 'What the hell, Sherlock?' But, I stop him before he does.

"I understand you're upset with me right now. However, we have a case. Let's put that aside until we've solved it, alright?" I offer. John closes his eyes. He's counting again. Three, again. He sighs and opens his eyes, lowering his shoulders.

"Fine. So, what are we doing at a pawn shop? And why this one in particular?" he asks me. I give a little smirk.

"You'll see," I tell him, and lead him indoors.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

We go inside 'Jabez's Junk: A Pawn Shop' and as I'm looking around, everything looks... old. Like the fifties and sixties just decided to vomit all over the shelves of this place. I think there's a few eighties articles here. Like an old eight-track over in one cupboard. I think my mum had a jewelry case like that flowery one. And.. is that a top hat?

Anyway, Sherlock goes right over to the counter where a young man with auburn hair is coming out from behind it. He's got a funny mark on his neck. When I see it, it looks like an oddly coloured birthmark.

I observe, and it looks like a scar. The kind one would get from scalding.

"Heya. What can I do for you gents?" he asks us.

"Just wondering... do you all have a website? I have a cousin over in Liverpool who loves stuff like what you carry. Thing is, he can never pop over and take a look. I'd love to have somewhere to refer him so he can order things from you. Maybe even sell you some of his own goods," Sherlock says, using close to the same tone of voice he did when he was trying to get into Van Coon's flat a couple years ago. Makes me wonder if he ever took any acting classes as a kid. Actually, it's hard to picture Sherlock as a kid. Well, as a normal kid anyway. It's pretty easy to tell how he _acted _as a kid. He tends to do so on a fairly regular basis. And he's, what, almost thirty now? I think he was 27 or so when we met. Though, he looks a bit younger than that, I admit.

"Yeah, we do. Here's one of our cards. The website's at the bottom," the clerk says, handing a small business card to Sherlock. "Gonna warn you though, we're in the process of switching servers, so the site may be down at the moment." Sherlock nods in understanding and pockets the card.

"Gotcha. Thanks, Mr..."

"Spaulding. Vincent Spaulding. Call me Vince, though," Vince states, holding a hand out for Sherlock. Sherlock takes it and gives a quick shake.

"Nice to meet you, Vince. And thanks!" he calls, and we leave.

"And, why did you want their business card? Or find the website? Couldn't you just look it up yourself?" I ask once we're back on the street. Sherlock chuckles.

"I didn't want the card at all. I just needed an excuse to look at this 'Vince'," he explains.

"What, is Vince not his real name?"

"I don't think it is. But to be sure of who it really is, tell me - did you notice his neck?" Thinking back to the scald mark, I nod.

"Yes. There was a scar on the left side of his neck. Er, _his_ right. Looks like a liquid scar. A splash, probably," I add. He smiles at me.

"A splash from what, exactly?" he asks. I feel he already knows the answer, but he wants to see what I know. Thankfully, as a doctor, this is a bit easier this time.

"Acid. The colouration is reminiscent of being hit with an acid," I state. He smiles wider. I can't help but smile a little myself seeing it.

"Excellent, John. Your powers of observation are getting better," he says. I give a slight laugh at this notion.

"Thanks."

"Now, a man working in a pawn shop isn't likely to have an acid scar on his neck, correct? Which means he got it from elsewhere. One could simply say that it was from a chemistry class years ago, however the placement is a bit odd for a classroom accident. Further, that's not a scar from anything you'd find in a school chem lab. It's too corrosive. And, the shape was more like it was merely dropped onto his neck rather than splashed on, but one wouldn't normally think of such an occurrence unless they were looking for it."

"Which you were?" He nods.

"Yes. When our client mentioned that mark on his clerk's neck, it clicked something in my head. Not too long ago, there was a case in the police beat reported where the head of a gang had captured a member of an opposing gang and dropped acid on him as torture. The police intervened after one drop had occurred and arrested the attacking gang head, but the other got away. Thus, the Blue Rooks were finally abolished."

"The Blue Rooks?" I question. He explains.

"Fairly quiet gang, but well known in certain underground pockets. Characterised by a blue chess piece tattoo on the right side of their neck. Mycroft had some trouble with them years back. Not himself personally, but one of his agents did have a run in with them. That's how I learned of them."

"Uh huh."

"Now then, as for the man that escaped..." he started. He pointed back to the pawn shop. "That was him. At least, I think so."

"Why don't you know for sure?"

"Because I don't know the name of the gang he's involved in. The Blue Rooks had plenty of rivals."

"Well, my first thought is a gang that uses red as their main colour," I offer. He looks at me skeptically.

"Red, why red?"

"Well, I think there's a couple of rival American gangs that do that..." He turns his head back to his front and sighs.

"If you're referring to their politics system..." he starts. I chuckle.

"No, but that is a funny comparison," I admit. "So, back to why you wanted to look at him?"

"Right. Well, the neck wasn't the only thing. I needed to look at his knees."

"His knees?" I inquire, remembering the conclusions he drew the _last_ time he looked at someone's knees. Namely, Sgt. Donovan's.

"The knees of his trousers were rather damp and rough. He'd been crawling around somewhere. Somewhere wet. Concrete as well," he added, stomping a heel on the street to emphasise as we walked up to Tower 42.

"What, like in a sewer tunnel?" I ask. Sherlock smiles again at me.

"Splendid, John. Seems we're on the same wavelength," he comments. Why do his complements keep getting to me? Then again, I've noticed mine do the same to him as well, if my interjections at his observations early on were any indication. We ride up the escalator to the bank. "I need to see Mr. Wilkes."


	5. A Series of Warnings

**A/N** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

"Well, well. Sherlock Holmes. Haven't seen you since before the fall to your death... rather, _supposed_ death, anyway. How go things, Houdini?" Seb asks me with that old viper's tongue of his once we all sit down in his office. I suppose I'm a little mixed when it comes to Sebastian. Sure, he acts like quite the... well, as John would put it, an arse. However, I know that he'll help me. After all I did for him back in Uni, he owes me. At least he's man enough to admit it. Though, I do wonder how much of his assistance is because of that, or just for PR... since he knows both John and I will rake him over the coals if he goes back on his word.

"I fear your establishment may be targeted again," I warn him. His face turns skeptical.

"You're kidding, right?" he asks me, though there's a slight nervousness to his tone.

"No. But I would like to know why. What anyone would be interested in here." He starts fidgeting. Messing with his collar, like it's gotten hot in the room or something. His brow's turning up with worry. His mouth's gone straight as a line. He's hiding something. Something here in the foreign branch. Something recent. Something others shouldn't be aware of just yet. "Well?"

"God, that stare of yours gives me the willies," he mutters. He then gives a tentative gulp. "Alright, alright. I'll tell you. We just got a shipment of newly minted Chinese yen to be used for exchanges roughly two weeks ago. 5,000,000 pounds worth." Our eyes got wide.

"Five mil?" John whispered in astonishment.

"Yes," Seb confirmed.

"Where do you keep it?" I ask. He looks at me frustrated.

"Why the hell should I tell you that?" he inquires angrily.

"Because it would give me a better chance at knowing how to defend it," I answer dryly. Seb's brow's still furrowed. His eyes dart back and forth between me and John. Finally, he slumps back down into his chair and sighs.

"Fine. We have a basement level where it's kept. It's secure, though. Steel encasing all round it. Withstand a nuclear bomb, I'm sure."

"What about drilling?"

"Hah. You'd have to be digging with the force of three diamond tips to get through that!" Seb boasts.

"Welding?"

"Forget it. Nothing will break through the walls."

"What about the floor?"

"The floor?" Seb laughs. He then turns eerily silent. His face slowly grows shocked. "The floor..." he utters after a while. He slumps further in his chair and covers his eyes with one hand. "Bloody hell, the _floor_..."

"What's it made up of?" John asks. Seb moves his hand down his face and stares at John.

"Concrete. That's it. Same as the roads," he admits slowly.

"Brilliant call, Seb," I remark sarcastically.

"Well, genius, what am I supposed to do?" Seb yells.

"I'm certain you have close to a week before you're hit."

"What makes you say that, then?"

"Just trust me on this, all right? All I know is the how, the what, the where and an inkling on the who and when. I don't know the why."

"Do you need to know the why?"

"If I'm to prevent this from happening _again_, yes," I state. Seb goes silent. He closes his eyes and sighs heavily, as if in defeat.

"Fine. What should I do in the meantime?"

"Don't panic," John offers.

"Payment?"

"Whatever you feel is worth it, Seb," I answer. He nods, and John and I leave.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"So, what now?" I ask Sherlock once we get out of Tower 42. "You said you had an idea about the who. You gonna clue me in on what this case is about any time soon?"

"Right, sorry. I won't bore you with too many of the details, but the main issue is that our client, the owner of the pawn shop we visited, was employed by one 'Red-Headed League', worked for a while with them, they suddenly vanished, and Mr. Wilson has asked us to look into their disappearance."

"League? That sounds vaguely gang-esque," I remark.

"Possibly. Another key point was that 'Vince' was the one who pointed them out to Mr. Wilson in the first place."

"Weird."

"Quite." We keep walking down the street a ways before either of us says anything. I go first.

"So, where we headed now?" I ask.

"Scotland Yard. I need to look into who's on the gangs beat."

"Not often you ask the police for help."

"Well, since they came to me first in directing our client to us, I'm merely touching base with them."

"Sure."

The Viewpoint of D.I. Dimmock

I'm writing up a report on the latest underground activities when a familiar voice calls my name.

"Dimmock! I need to speak with you," it calls. I look up to see Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson coming up to my office.

"Mr. Holmes? When the others told me you were alive, I could hardly believe it. I've been so busy on my beat I've had little to no time back here at the Yard itself..." I start, but Holmes interrupts me.

"It's fine, Dimmock. Really. Now, then, about your work. Lestrade told me that you're head of the gangs beat?"

"Right. Well, after all I did to help stop the Black Lotus Gang with you, I was put to the task. Take it you need some information?" I ask as I lead them into my office. He nods as we all sit down.

"Ever hear of the Red-Headed League?" he asks me. Why the hell would he ask about _them_? I think I start turning pale, what with how Dr. Watson's staring at me.

"You okay, Detective Inspector?" he asks.

"Not particularly," I answer quietly. I motion for them to have a seat and lean closer. "The Red-Headed League's only turned up recently, but they're a pretty nasty lot. Another of the weird quiet ones like the Blue Rooks, but they're quickly gaining ground. Last I heard, not but a month ago, they've taken up camp at a night club called 'The Crimson Lantern'. They come in throngs about every Thursday night. No one but their own dare set foot in there at those times."

"Why not?" Holmes inquires, clearly intrigued by the League.

"They're brutal. We're sure they take people they don't care for and slit their throats."

"How?"

"Right side of the neck. Good clean cut, too," I tell them as I make a slicing motion with my hand.

"What do you mean, you're 'sure'?"

"We've never seen them actually do it, but the places they're dumped is consistent with their hangouts. Plus, no other gang out there does such a thing. So, process of elimination points us to the League."

"You're sure it couldn't just be some other criminal?" John asks. I shake my head 'no'.

"Take my word for it. No one. Else. Does that. If they did, I'd be the first to be informed of it," I assure them. Holmes then stands and walks over to one side of the room. He's put his hands in a pose I've come to learn is his 'thinking' position. Looks as though he's turning over possibilities in his head. Then he twirls around to face me.

"What's their initiation procedure? Requirements?" he asks. I look at him skeptically.

"I'm sorry?" I say, processing what it is he's just asked me. Sounds like he wants to get in somehow. But, that can't be what he wanted to know, could it? He'd have to be a blooming idiot.

"How do I get into the League?" he asks again. I stare at him dumbfounded. That is what he asked me.

"You really want to run that risk for a case?" I put to him, concerned. He smirks, in a way that shows I shouldn't worry.

"Yes." I sigh.

"They do all their interviews over at that Crimson Lantern place I told you about. It's kind of hidden away in Soho," I admit, sullen that he's really gonna go through with this. "The other thing is, you have to have red hair. And, if you try dyeing it, you've got to make it look as natural as you can. One dark root, and you're in the alleys with your throat slashed open," I warn him. Holmes smiles.

"Thanks," is all he says, and he's out the door. John nods his thanks and tears after him. I sort of slump back in my chair. I can't believe I've told him all that. And based on how Holmes was just asking...

He's gonna get into the League, or die trying.


	6. An Idea Man

**A/N:** So, part of why I chose this story to adapt was to take advantage of the fact that Benedict Cumberbatch actually has red hair. Just saying. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"_Hi Doc! Listen, I've gotta go back home for a few days for some family stuff, but I'll be back by Thursday afternoon. Sorry I couldn't tell you in person, but I really had to hurry. I'll see if I can't get a souvenir from the States for Little Sherlock! Call- uh, _ring_ if you need anything! Bye!_"

I sigh as I end the voicemail, putting the phone down and adjust how I carry my 'armful of fussy baby'. Of course Rebecca's out this week. Clearly, my boy must be able to sense that his playmate won't be around. He's squirming like some sort of reptile.

"Come on, Sherlock. Be reasonable. What is it you want? A bath? Food? Sleep?" God knows I'd like some right about now. Especially since I know Little Sherlock's on the verge of crying. Judging from my current run of luck, and depending on how active Sherlock wants me on this case, I may have to resort to asking Mrs. Hudson...

I hear Sherlock's bounding footsteps up the stairway. He said he needed to run down to the salon for some reason or another. No idea why he thought getting a cut and style would help, but maybe I'm just one of those "in the box" type of thinkers.

"I want a name," Sherlock announces as soon as he bursts in.

"Name? What... Who's name?" I ask confused, trying to ensure my little lizard boy doesn't wriggle out of my arms.

"A first name. Any name. Give me a name!" he orders as he walks across the sitting room towards the kitchen.

"Okay... ah... um... 'Michael'?" I offer. First thing that comes to mind. Don't ask why. I really don't know.

"Michael..." he repeats. "Good. Good! What about a last name? Any last name, don't care what it is!" he says, emptying out the contents of his bags. From what I can see, it looks like a jug of milk - God bless the man - a box of latex gloves (which isn't anything new if you know him) and... three boxes of hair dye? Can't really tell since Little Sherlock's grabbing at my face.

"Um... um..." I'm struggling to speak since I'm trying to get baby fingers out of my mouth and nose. "Cabin?" I say, thinking to one of my primary school maths instructors for some reason or another. Sherlock appears to approve, since he's stopped shuffling with his bags.

"Cabin... Michael Cabin... Mike Cabin... What sort of attitude would you think a man with that name has?"

"I dunno..." I start, sitting down in my armchair with my son. "Posh?" Sherlock claps once in approval.

"Yes! Good! Posh, of course!" he exclaims. Then, he goes into another bout of acting. Sort of gliding about the sitting room, changing the tone of his voice to sound smoother, more charming, and, well... posh. "Hello, I'm Michael Cabin. _Hi_, I'm Mike Cabin, _pleasure_ to make your acquaintance," he tries. It's actually pretty convincing. "Good, good. Occupation?" he pitches. I think for a second, bouncing my boy on my knee.

"How about songwriter?" I offer with a slight shrug, still not quite sure where he's going with this. He smiles broad over the ides and snaps his fingers.

"Songwriter! Excellent! And he could be a singer-songwriter at that! One who's starting out, wanting to make a name for himself... Brilliant! _Brilliant_! Hah!" he cries, and dashes off into the washroom with one of the boxes of hair dye.

And _then_ I realise what I've just done.

"I've helped you come up with a new character, didn't I?" I ask hesitantly.

"Yes, you did," he calls from the washroom. "Well done. You ever thought of writing fiction?"

"Well, some would say our adventures sound like fiction."

"Well, bully to them," he replied in the Mike Cabin voice. This is going to be weird. He switches back to his normal voice. "Oh, one thing, John."

"What?" I ask, as Little Sherlock actually stops fussing.

"Could you write out a text to Lestrade for me? Type exactly what I say."

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

_Could you stop by Baker St. Thursday next? Come dressed for a night out, bring an extra jacket. SH_

I sit there for a second, pondering my phone. No idea what Sherlock's got planned, but I'm glad he's at least cluing me in on it, for once.

_Sure. Where are we going? G. Lestrade_

I usually get replies from him about ten, twenty seconds later. This one though takes about a minute. Must be dictating to John. But John usually only takes a few more seconds, not a whole minute. Must be the baby messing with the phone, or something. As soon as my phone buzzes, I look at the next text:

_We're headed to the Crimson Lantern. SH_

"Oh, you've got to be joking..." I mutter under my breath. He's probably got some elaborate plan in his head. Especially if he thinks he's dragging me to a night club. He'd better have a damn good reason for picking me to go with him. 'Cause I don't do clubs. Too posh for my taste. He should know this. Only exception is if it's for the case.

_This better be for the case. G. Lestrade_

_It is. SH_

Of course it is.

_Fine. I'll come. G. Lestrade_

_Good. Wear teal. SH_

...Teal? Really? Didn't think he was a dress code sort. Well, 'least I've got a few days to figure out what he's up to. And why I'm going to a night club with him on a Thursday.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"Did you send it?"

"Yes. I guess you got the last word. What are you even doing in there anyway?" I ask, though I'm a little worried about the answer.

"Just trying to get used to how to do this. By the way, I'm using some of your product."

"Wha- _My_ product? Oh, great. There's _another_ thing you're stealing from me. You'd better not get dye in it."

"I got milk..." he says, like that's supposed to make me feel better.

"And you expect to get a blue ribbon?" I snark back. Not exactly one of my more original comebacks, but it'll have to do. Suddenly, all goes quiet, save for the babblings of my son. It stays that way for round about half a minute. Then Sherlock speaks up.

"Listen, John... I'm sorry. I understand that I've upset you a few times this week." He pauses. "Okay, more than a few times. I know just saying sorry is not good. I'll try to make it up to you, somehow. I promise."

I don't say anything at first, since this is kind of rare for him. It's nice. It's good.

"Okay," I reply. That's good enough for him, since it sounds like he goes right back to work on his hair. I set Little Sherlock over in his little play area and put the milk in the fridge with my eyes closed. I never have any idea of what all he stores in there, and after the severed head, I'm not taking any more chances. Once I close the fridge door, I turn around and nearly let out a word I really shouldn't with a child present only a few feet away. Standing in front of me is Sherlock...

With vibrant red hair. The sides of his hair are pressed in a little, concentrating most of the curls to the top of his head. He even styled his bangs a little differently.

"What do you think?" he asks. Frankly, it looks good on him. It looks oddly natural. But... something's a little off.

"The hair looks good..."

"But?"

"Your eyes stand out. You don't see red-haired men with grey eyes."

"So, contacts?" he suggests. I nod.

"Yeah. Try a pale blue or green," I hint. Sherlock nods in agreement.

"Didn't think you paid attention to that sort of thing."

"What, hair and eye colour? Sure. Now, I don't consider myself a stylist or anything, but I do know a bit about colour. I took a few art classes in school before I went into training," I confess. I don't really talk much about my art background. There isn't much to speak of. Just a couple drawing courses I figured would help when I got to anatomical drawings for my medical studies.

"You're an artist?" Sherlock asks with that old toddler wide-eyed awestruck look. I shake my head.

"No, not in any respectable sense. I dabble, and that's it. I mean, it could be fun to pick up sketching again, but like I'm ever gonna have time for that. Between raising my son, our cases and the clinic, I'd never find the time." It's a sad truth, but it's the truth all the same.

"Huh," is all Sherlock says in response to that, and the retreats to the washroom to take out the dye. My phone on the coffee table starts buzzing. When I pick it up, I see a text from Harry.

_Hey, Johnny! How's your day shaping up? -Harry x_

_Fine. Nothing too out of the ordinary. JW_


	7. An Attack

**A/N:** For the purpose of my story/series, the character Detective Inspector Dimmock (whose only appearance so far was in 'The Blind Banker') will have the first name "Andrew", often shortened to "Andy". The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of DI Dimmock

I really don't know how I've been roped into it still, but I've been dragged into several clothing stores with Greg. He said it was because I was younger and would know what was stylish. Stylish, really? Me? I come in everyday wearing basically the same thing only varying what sort of stripes are running down my necktie. That also includes my days off. I have no fashion sense, really. Never have. Guess I'm kind of boring in that respect. Normal.

Even so, here I am. In our... I think fifteenth store? I've lost count. Greg seems hellbent on finding a teal shirt. Something about Sherlock's case. What Greg going to find a teal shirt to wear has anything to do with Sherlock's looking into the Red-Headed League is beyond me. Then again, I guess I have a bit of a hard time tackling the facts when it comes to Sherlock, anyway. I did only meet him two years ago.

"This one look like the right colour?" Greg asks me as I'm still sort of spacing out about this whole thing. He's holding up a light blue-green button down shirt.

"Hm? Ah, it looks too bright on you," I say. Greg gives a face that says "yeah, you're right" and puts it back on the rack. "Why did you ask me?" I inquire. Greg stops thumbing through the mass of shirts and turns around.

"Hm?"

"Why did you want me here? Out of all the people you could have asked?" Greg sighed and lowered his shoulders into a more relaxed position.

"'Cause, I thought you could use the time out of the station. You looked like you'd hit a brick wall with your case and needed a breather, and I need help putting together something for a case I'm on. So, it's a win-win, as far as I see it," he explains. Guess that makes sense. I wasn't getting anywhere with the Blue Rook mess. Who was the other man that ran off? Why did they run? What did he do to them that made them torture him? Was he a part of their gang? Or some rival? Augh, it's making my head go in circles. "You alright?" I snap back to now.

"Yeah, just... yeah. You're right..." I start. He then grasps my shoulder.

"Look, Andy, I know you're having a bit of a rough patch. And that's fine. All part of being a Detective Inspector. It can be a bit daunting your first few years of it. Just tryin' to teach you that it's okay to take a break to recollect your thoughts. That's all." He then smiles at me in sort of a paternal way, I guess. I smile back a little, and we continue our hunt for a teal shirt for him.

"Thanks, Greg," I say.

"No problem, Andy."

As we continue down the street to the next store, I ask him where he's going that he needs a teal shirt for.

"Well, Sherlock's got us going to some night club this next Thursday and wants me to dress up for it," he tells me.

I stop dead in my tracks. He can't be serious. He can't be that stupid. Or maybe he is, I don't know. No, not Greg - Sherlock. I warned him. I specifically warned him. This must be some sort of joke, right?

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

"Well, who would have thought! You're actually using your own laptop for once! What a concept!" John says to me sarcastically as he walks back into the sitting room. I'm reading various webpages about singer/songwriters sitting on the far end of the couch. John goes to sit in his armchair. His son's been put down for a nap upstairs.

"Seeing as how you made a big deal of it over the phone yesterday, I figured I ought to," I inform him without turning my eyes from my research. John's silent for a bit. I figure he's a little slack-jawed about my remark; surprised I'm actually acknowledging what he wants. While I admit it isn't that often I do take that into account when I'm on a case, I realise that that's one of my vices. I hope that by using my own computer, as opposed to his will, make him see that I am sorry for how I've treated him recently.

"Right. Thanks," he says. I scroll through pages for another hour, absorbing all that would be relevant to my role, ignoring all that won't. I then hear a small tap as something's set down on the table next to me. I smell coffee. I glance down and see that John has indeed set a mug of coffee down for me. "Black, two sugars. Just like you like it," he tells me as he settles back down in his chair with his own mug.

"Thank you," I respond and give him a quick smile. While I don't entirely understand the gesture, I would guess that it's his way of trying to help me. Coffee does help keep my brain active, at least for a while. I take a sip every now and then as I read. I hear the rustling of the newspaper, indicating that John must be reading it. He's flipped three pages and stops. He's on the page with the police reports.

"Sherlock," he calls. "You might want to take a look at this."

"Read it to me," I ask, not wanting to move from my spot.

"'Man hospitalized after brutal attack in pawn shop. Store owner Jabez Wilson, 56, was found in the back of his store with a gaping wound on his neck.'" I quickly get up from the couch, climb over the table, and walk over to behind John's chair. "'Luckily an ambulance was called shortly after the attack. Mr. Wilson is now in the hospital in recovery. Given where the wound was on his neck, police suspect it may have to do with a local gang. However, they state that this gang is not something for the public to worry about.' Well, what do you think of that?" John says turning to me.

"They must have known he talked to the police. Or to us. Either way, they know he said something he shouldn't have. Probably the name of their gang," I infer.

"What should we do about this? Anything?"

"No. There's nothing that can be done for Mr. Wilson at this point. I'm sure the Yard will put some sort of security detail on him if there isn't one already..." I stop momentarily in my thoughts. "What did it say about an ambulance?"

"Just that it was called shortly after the attack. It doesn't say who did." I pace the sitting room a bit, arguing in my head. There's no way that _he'd_ be watching my client, would there? And why would he? What would _he_ have anything to do with this? "Sherlock? What are you thinking?"

"I need to go out for a bit. Stay here for the time being, please. I won't be long," I tell him as I put on my coat and scarf.

"Alright. Text if you need anything."

"Will do," I tell him and head out of 221b. I hail a taxi. "Pall Mall," I order the cabbie, and I head off to talk to _him_.


	8. A Meeting of Minds

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

While I'm used to Sherlock going off to chase a lead, or get some information he can only do himself, I can't help but worry. Especially after the _first_ time he said he'd be going out and wouldn't be long. Bloody idiot, going after that cabbie... I shake my head to keep myself from getting sidetracked in my thoughts. Anyways, I know he'll be back. He always comes back. Sure it may take a while (like a sodding _year and a day_) but he comes back. Okay, that sounds really like I'm in denial about something. And... I suppose I am. I guess that's part of why I moved back here. I worry. I worry that if I take my eyes off him, for even a minute, he'll disappear again.

I don't ever want to feel that lonely again.

Wait- lonely? Well... it... It's not that I wasn't without company. I had my family, my friends, and my wife by my side. Even Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, would check in with me every once and again to see how I was doing. ...You know, now that I think of it, that was probably so Sherlock would know what I was up to without actually asking me myself during his "death". Sneaky bastard. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

But, back to my point, I wasn't without loved ones. I just didn't have _him_. ...Okay, not _remotely_ what I meant by that. I mean, he's my friend. My closest friend I've had in years. While I guess it does go a little beyond a basic friendship, it's not in a romantic sense. Despite what practically EVERYONE IN LONDON says to the contrary.

It's been about ten minutes after Sherlock went out, and Little Sherlock has started crying. Probably hungry. I get up from my chair and head up to tend to him.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Mycroft Holmes

_The Stranger's Room in five minutes. Must ask you about case. SH_

_Very well. MH_ I type in reply. It takes me a little while since I'm not as deft of thumb as my brother is. I get up from my soporific armchair, stretch a teensy bit, gather up my phone and newspaper, and head down to the Stranger's Room. All in silence, of course. As per the rules of this establishment. I take my time, quietly crossing the halls and climbing the stairwell, making my way to the large _salon_-type room. As soon as I enter, I observe that someone had been in here previously, but must have had to leave rather hurriedly to catch a train.

Newspaper haphazardly dropped by one of the chairs, a drink that seems mostly water due to the ice cubes that were in it having melted, a ring around the glass from the condensation. All that would have taken about 12 to 14 minutes given the temperature in the room, and ten minutes ago was the 3:15. The indentations in the carpet are from a pair of dress shoes commonly seen on traveling businessmen.

I walk over to the three large joined windows at the back of the room, looking out over Pall Mall. I see that a cab has pulled up. Out comes the tall lithe form of my brother. I believe that he wishes to see if I was involved with something without his knowledge, given how his brow is furrowed and his nose is a little crinkled. His mouth is most certainly frowning. And, in his rush to see me, he's forgotten to pay the cab driver. Again. It will forever astonish me how focused he can be sometimes. Like a champion race horse with its blinders, he dashes to what he needs. Pays little attention to the nuances of life around him. Oh, how I pity his analytical mind.

Of course, if I were to make such a statement aloud to him, he'd probably attempt to ring my neck with that scarf of his.

In any case, here he comes, bounding into the room, charging right into the point of his coming.

"Were you the one who called the ambulance?" he asks a bit breathless. He must have half-ran from the front door to here.

"Background, please. Have a seat," I implore my brother, motioning to one of the armchairs in the centre of the room. He sits, and I sit in the chair opposite him.

"I saw in the paper this morning that my client was attacked. An ambulance was called shortly afterwards, but the article did not mention anyone on the scene other than my client. Were you watching him?" he asks me, more assertively this time.

"Name."

"Jabez Wilson."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Wilson. The one with the predicament of the Red-Headed League. Yes. Yes, we were keeping an eye on him. As such, it probably was one of my employees that called the ambulance. Not myself specifically, mind," I explained. I notice that as I did so Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly. Probably thinking something along the lines of "Oh, god, will he ever stay out of my business and just let me do my work?"

"Do you keep any CCTV footage?" he inquires.

"For 72 hours, yes. Why?"

"I need to see the footage for the time of the attack."

"Ah. You wish to figure out how it happened. Well, under normal circumstances, this would not be permissible. I've made too many exceptions in the past because you are my brother. While I keep insisting that you are to be trusted, the higher-ups don't like it as much. Even so, because this is not only beneficial to your work, but also to mine own, I will show you," I explain. Sherlock hops up from his chair.

"A simple 'yes' would've sufficed," he says and starts to head out of the room. I follow closely behind.

When we reach the surveillance room, I pull up the footage from yesterday. From 21:23 that evening. The video shows Wilson cleaning up the shop for about two minutes. Then, someone comes up from the back of the store and suddenly overtakes Wilson from behind. He makes a slashing motion, thus slicing into Wilson's neck as the article described. He then escapes by dashing out of the storefront.

"Any way to figure out who that was?" Sherlock asks.

"It would be a waste of time. Time that you may not have. It would be nearly impossible to ascertain the assailant's identity from this recording. Mostly thanks to the man's attire being as dark as it is. The hood doesn't help, either. His 'description' could link to multiple individuals," I point out. Sherlock lets out a curt snarl of disappointment.

"See if you can figure out if any of Wilson's customers that day could have been League members. Maybe one of them decided to stick around the shop to make the attack," he stated.

"Could be. And, if you would ask politely, I'd be happy to oblige, dear brother." After all I put up with last year, a little common courtesy would not hurt. ...Is what I _wish _to add, but I know if I do, again, Sherlock would make an attempt on my life. Sherlock took in a deep breath. Five seconds pass. Seems that John's rubbing off on him, as that's been his usual method of calming himself when Sherlock's being difficult. He then exhales.

"If you would _please_ assist me in this case, I'd be very grateful," he says with a hint of sarcasm. That will do. I nod to say so. I then show him the way out of the building.

"Do take care, Sherlock. And send greetings to John for me, would you please?" I call as his cab pulls up.

"Sure," says he and he gives a very small wave good-bye.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

About an hour later, Sherlock comes back. He hangs up his coat and scarf by the door. Good - means he'll be staying a while.

"Mycroft says 'hello,'" he says as he walks toward the window, stopping to say a quick little 'hello' to my son in his play area. I make a wordless acknowledgement as I'm reading the paper, keeping an eye on Little Sherlock. So that's where he went. Wonder where the guy lives, anyway?

"What'd you go see him for? Think he's the one who called the ambulance?" I ask. Sherlock suddenly stands up straighter. He whirls around to face me.

"Yes. How did you know?" he inquires with a bit of childlike wonderment.

"Well, you asked specifically what the article said about the ambulance. Remembering that he has access to pretty much any CCTV camera around, he might have seen something, right?" I reason. Sherlock beams at me.

"Brilliant, John. Exactly the conclusion I came to. Though, with a few steps missing." He starts pacing the room. Little Sherlock is transfixed on him and his movements. "There's also the missing factor as to _why_ Mycroft would watch him. Possibly because he's our client. Either way, it came up as a bit of a bust..."

"Saw the culprit, can't identify?"

"Yeah."

"So what's the next step?" I ask.

"Nothing yet." I raise an eyebrow.

"Nothing?"

"We can do nothing until tomorrow night, anyway."

"That's when you go as Cabin to that night club?" Sherlock nods.

"All day I'll be in the flat practicing. Getting into a new mindset. I want to ensure that I'm convincing."

"And that you fix your eyebrows," I add, turning the page in the newspaper. He stops pacing and stares at me confused. "The hair dye. You'll want to dye the eyebrows, as well. Otherwise, it'll be obvious that you dyed it," I point out.

"Ah, right." He then plops down in his own armchair and reaches for his violin. He starts plucking it absentmindedly as he searches for his bow. My son starts giggling at the funny sounds it makes.

"I think we've got a little music connoisseur in the making behind you," I remark, jokingly. Sherlock smiles as he finds his bow.

"If that's the case, he has excellent taste," he says. He then places the bow to the strings and plays.


	9. A Tough Decision

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

Today's the day. Thursday. Man, I'm starting to stress about it. "Why, Greg! What on earth could have you stressed?" one might ask. Well, let me tell you, I've got a lot to worry bout. Mostly, I'm worried I might spoil this whole thing. I mean, I'm probably one of the more well-known Detective Inspectors in the London area. Been in the media quite a few times. Someone in that gang might recognise me.

Also, we're going to a night club. I don't do night clubs. Not normally, anyway. I'd probably be one of the more awkward souls at that thing. Further, going to one of those places usually involves being good-looking. Now, not to sound narcissistic, but I do look fairly well for my age. Even so, I'm greying. I've got some wrinkles here and there. My metabolism's gone straight to Hell. I don't look as fit as I used to. Hell, with all the long-night cases I get on a fairly regular basis, I look tired. Hardly all that appealing for a night club.

Still, Sherlock must think I have some potential. Otherwise he wouldn't have asked me to come, right? Don't remember what time he wants me to pop over, though. Better text him.

_What time am I supposed to head over again? G. Lestrade_

I plunk down in an old armchair in my sitting room. I take in a deep breath... and immediately regret it. In reflex, I pinch my nose shut. God, my flat's really turned into a bachelor pad. ...Or a man-cave. Either way, I need to attack this chair with some sort of air freshener/fabric cleaner thing. Or, I could actually get up off my lazy arse and go and buy a new chair. Damn well overdue for a new one. It's coming apart at the seams. I mean, I've had it since I moved into this place years ago. It's got stains and worn spots and-

My phone goes off. I snatch it up from the coffee table.

_6 sharp, chap. Don't forget! MC_

...'MC'? 'Chap?' I clap a hand over my eyes and run it down my face with an exasperated sigh.

"...Oh, boy."

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Sherlock's dyed his hair again, remembering his eyebrows this time. He even got the bluer contacts I recommended the other day. He's holding him self a little more aloofly (if that's even a word). He's even changed his speech patterns. He's really become a different person. Just like with the old man, if I didn't know it was him already, I probably wouldn't have recognised him.

"Sherlock?" I call. He doesn't turn around. Oh, that's right. Even changed his name. I clear my throat. "Mike?"

"Yes? What? Something the matter?" he asks, posh-sounding as ever.

"When are we going out?" I ask.

"To the club? Oh, about 6:30 is when we'll leave. We'll get there before seven. I just texted Lestrade, let him know to come by six."

"Ah. Hey, is that a new phone?" I notice that there's a red phone on his desk.

"Yep. Mycroft gave it to me when I was dead. Different number and everything. Good for undercover stuff, yeah?" he reasons. I nod. Makes sense. After all, he left his real phone with me.

"So, when do you want me to send for the sitter?"

"Text Rhonda at about 6:20, 6:25. She only takes about five, ten minutes to get here, right?"

"Rebecca. And, yeah, something like that." It's really weird having Sherlock being Mike Cabin. I mean, I obviously know that it's really Sherlock under all that hair product. It's just... weird.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the Guise of Michael Cabin)

Hmm.. John's been staring at me oddly all day. He's probably been thinking too hard, trying to process the differences between Cabin and Holmes. I am grateful to him for the tip about the eyebrows and eyes. Very helpful. Now, before we head out in about forty-five minutes, I need to make sure about our attire... make sure I stand out to the League to get their attention as a potential member.

I head into my room, careful to step over any discarded research tomes, science equipment, papers, and socks, and begin to peruse through my closet.

Light blue? Might bring out the eye colour, but blue is a more innocent colour. Also close to the colour of a police box. Not good for a potential gang member.

Purple? No, I wear that one too much as it is.

Grey? I want to stand out, not blend in. Plus, I think I need to take it out a bit. The buttons are a bit tight.

...What the- Yellow? Good god, I still have this wretched thing? Mycroft, if you planted this in here while I was away, I swear...

Hmm... this maroon looks nice. Should work, since red is their signature colour, and all.

Though, this yellow-green is good, as well. Don't think it's for me, though.

"John? What are you wearing?" I call. It takes him a few seconds to reply. Did I say something wrong?

"Um... a sort of blue-greyish jumper... jeans... um... argyle socks?"

"No, no, to the _club_. What are you wearing to the _club_?"

"Oh! Sorry. Ah... A dress shirt and some black trousers."

"Good. Do get dressed, ol' chap. Want to make sure we leave at the right time. 'Sides, Lestrade'll be here any minute. Hurry on!" I tell him, trying to recall some of the company I kept back at Uni. It's not enjoyable by any stretch of the word, and it's a bit fuzzy, but it's necessary. I would assume John's gone to do so since I hear his footsteps going up to his room.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

"Heading out to a do or somethin'?" the cabbie asks me. I can see why. I'm all dressed up just like Sherlock told me. Look like I'm going for a night out, and wearing teal. Even brought the extra jacket like he asked.

"Sort of," I reply. After my first case meeting John, I'm a little leery of some cabbies. But this one seems nice enough.

"Got a date?"

"Trying to make one once I'm there," I say. Which, while not the point of this little venture, it would be a nice bonus. And even if I don't get any numbers or anything, if I can at least turn some ladies' heads (in a good way) I'll call it a good night.

"Ah. Well, best a luck to ya, then," he offers as he pulls up to 221b.

"Thanks," I reply and give him his pay. I then hop out of the car and knock on the front door. I'm greeted by their landlady, Mrs... Hastings, was it?

"Evening, Detective Inspector. The boys are upstairs. Though, I ought to warn you: Sherlock's a completely different person tonight!" she tells me.

"I don't doubt it, ma'am," I answer stepping into the flat.

"Mrs Hud_son_! Is that Lestrade?" I hear Sherlock call from upstairs. Right. Hudson. I knew that.

"Yes it is. I'm sending him up to you," she calls back. "Go on ahead."

"Thank you." I walk up the familiar steps. Wonder how many there are? Maybe I'll count them at some point.

"Seventeen," Sherlock says.

"What?"

"There are seventeen steps from the front door to here. You came up rather slowly compared to your usual step pattern, so you were taking care as to how you stepped. Since you hadn't injured yourself, given how your footsteps were the same volume as usual, I knew you were pondering counting the steps. So, I tell you that there are seventeen," he explains in his usual baritone.

"Course. So, what's the pla- Good Lord in Heaven! Your hair!" It's an alarming shade of red. I mean, it looks natural, but weird at the same time.

"You don't like it?"

"I mean, you did a good job with it. Definitely not something you'd normally do. Even styled it different. Looks shorter. Did you cut it, too?"

"No, no, just styled it. Borrowed some of John's hair product."

"Did he appreciate that?"

"Don't worry, Lestrade, I gave him explicit permission," John answers, stepping into the room from upstairs, which I gather is where his room is. "Oh, and I've texted the babysitter."

"Good. Unlike those trousers." And Sherlock has the serve.

"What's wrong with my trousers?"

"They're jeans."

"_Black _jeans."

"They're still _jeans_, John!"

"It's either A) I wear my dress uniform which will probably attract more attention than necessary, B) these jeans which actually look semi presentable, or C) no trousers at all which will undoubtedly attract more attention than necessary."

"What about the ones you wore for your wedding?"

"You mean the ones I also wore to her funeral two months ago? And have me turn into a puddle of tears and have us leave an hour later than anticipated? No thanks."

Silence. Ball goes out of the court.

"Sorry."

"No, no, it's fine." John gets the point.

"Right. Your jeans will be fine. Now, about your shirt..." Sherlock serves again.

"What's the matter with my shirt?"

"Wrong colour." Hits the net, since he's lost me. He goes into where I assume is his room and grabs a green shirt and tosses it at John. Serves again. "This will do you nicely, John."

"Green?"

"_Yellow_-green, John. If I am wearing this red shirt and Lestrade is wearing blue-green, you'll wear yellow-green." I think Sherlock gets this point.

"Those actually go together?" I interject. "Crazy."

"Complimentary, my dear inspector," he replies.

"Right. Colour theory. Never knew you took an art class," John admits.

"I didn't. Found some of your old notes on it."

"And now you're rifling through my old papers. Of course." Since I get the feeling this is about to escalate, I decide to call the game.

"While this is a lovely discussion we're having, maybe we ought to actually get an idea on what exactly we're doing this evening, eh?" I offer. The two flatmates exchange a look of agreement and nod to me. "So, Sherlock? What's the plan?"

"That's not my name," Not-Sherlock tells me with a more posh tone.

"Okay, gimme. What is it?" He holds out his hand to me.

"_Hi_, I'm Mike Cabin. _Pleasure_ to make your acquaintance," he says.

Well, this _is _going to be an interesting evening.


	10. A Part We Play

**A/N:** Short chapter today. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Rebecca (The Babysitter)

_Need you at 221b for tonight. You available? JW_

_Of course! I'll be over in 5! -Rebecca_

I gotta say, it's pretty fun babysitting for Dr. John. His kid is freaking adorable. So cute. And he really is sweet. Sure, he's stubborn sometimes, especially when it comes to eating, but I manage pretty well.

So, I'm walking up to their flat when I see that there's some new guy in their window. Tall ginger guy. Kinda cute, actually. Oh, geez, he's spotted me. I smile and wave, to be nice. He's smiling right back and waving too!

As I get to the door, I'm about to knock, when the cute ginger guy opens the door for me.

"Hi! You must be Rebecca! John's told me about you. He's a little tied up with the other guest, so he couldn't get the door. Come on in!" he offers, and steps out of the doorway. I walk in and up the steps.

"So, since you know my name, what's yours?" I ask him as we go up.

"Michael Cabin. Mike for short. Pleasure to meet you!" he says. Did I mention he's cute?

"Nice to meet you, Mike!" I say as we get up to the "sitting room" as John calls it. I say "living room," but whatever. Potato, potahto. "Hello, Dr. John! You look sharp tonight!" I say. He seems a little confused at my comment. Eh, happens all the time. Americanisms and stuff. "You look nice."

"Oh! Thanks. He's upstairs, should be waking up soon. He should be eating in about five minutes or so. Oh, and the jars are on the left hand side of the third cupboard from the right. Don't grab the wrong one. Seriously," John warns me. He's told me a few times that his room- oops, flatmate is often doing experiments and is using old baby food jars to hold some sort of analysis on the degradation patterns of various fruits or something like that. Whatever it is, it should be left alone.

"Got it, Doctor!" I reply.

"Thanks. Oh, before we go, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade, Little Sherlock's godfather," he says, motioning to the other guest Mike was talking about. I've seen him on the news before, and he's the one John and Sherlock often do cases with. Kinda cool meeting him in person.

"Nice to meet you," I say, holding a hand out. He takes it and we shake.

"Likewise. Heard good things 'bout you."

"Likewise," I reply and we finish the gesture. John then puts on a suit coat.

"Well, we've got to get going. See you in a few hours," he says.

"Sure thing. Have fun! Nice meeting you two!" I say. John then stops and turns around.

"Two?"

"Yeah, the Detective Inspector, and Mike!" John then glares at Mike.

"What?" Mike says, giving a look that says "What'd I do?" Then I take a closer look at his face.

My God, I'm an idiot.

That's Sherlock. In disguise. I really wanna punch him for that. But I know if I do, John might never let me near this place again, so I try to keep my fist in check.

"Sherlock..." John starts, but then gives an exasperated sigh. "Look, Rebecca, I'll explain when we get back. Real sorry about that. Off out!" he finishes and the trio leaves. I watch from the window, and to my amazement, there's a limo. A freaking limo.

Where are they going, some movie premiere?

Well, there's my cue. The baby signal. Don't worry, Little Sherlock, Rebecca's here!

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

Sherlock's actually laughing when we get in the limo. It's kinda creepy. Like seeing Batman laugh.

"Sherlock, come on! That was mean."

"Hehahahehehe! I was _experimenting_, John. Hahahehe!" Sherlock replies, trying hard to keep his composure as he speaks. Okay, scratch the previous statement, it's not like Batman laughing. More like the Joker. A baritone Joker. Creepy.

"On our babysitter, though?"

"Who better? She's met me before outside of this disguise. The fact that someone who knows me doesn't recognise me right off is a tremendous help," he explains, having calmed down considerably. He's got a point. John sees this too and slumps a bit in his seat, defeated.

"So, how'd you get this limo, anyway?" I ask.

"My brother," is all Sherlock says. I haven't actually met his brother in person before, but from what Sherlock tells me, the man's impossible (coming from him?) so having to ask him for a favor is probably pretty grating, so I leave it at that.

"And he's okay with driving us to the Crimson Lantern?" John inquires. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"You really think that's him driving? Come now, John. You know how he hates 'legwork'," Sherlock emphasises, using air quotes on the word "legwork".

"So, how's this plan of yours going to work?"

"Easy. We go in, figure out what all I need to do, or rather, Mike needs to do to get into their gang, do it, and take it from there." He makes it sound so simple.

"But why have three of us go if you want them only paying attention to you?" I question.

"Simple, Lestrade. If one person enters a club, one would assume they're lonely and are there to get drunk. If two, they'd think they were dating, which, while all fine, would not help us get into the League. Three, however, is the perfect number. The leader, the wingman, and the designated driver," he explains.

"...But, we're in a limo," John adds.

"Oh, you get the idea. Besides, it's only a part we're playing," Sherlock affirms, a little put off.

"And where'd you get this idea? GQ? Cosmo?" I ask him, a bit worried about the actual answer.

"Google," he answers.

That'd do it.

We then come to a stop and I notice that every light around us is red. We're here. We step out of the limo, first John, then Sherlock- er, Mike- then me.

"So, chaps, ready for the show?" Mike asks.

"Just as long as you never sound so damn posh after tonight, yeah," I tell him under my breath. I look over at John. He looks miserable, grimacing like that. I grimace too.

Then again, when it comes to working with Sherlock, this is nothing too out of the ordinary.


	11. An Evening in Red

**A/N:** Let it be known that I am a teetotaler. I know next to nothing about alcoholic drinks, hence why I don't describe what's in the Crimson Lantern's specialty. Just know that it's bright red and tastes like cherries, mango, with a small spark of lemon. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

Okay, you ever see any old movies from the forties and fifties where the hero ends up going to some kind of classy nightclub? This looks like them, but a bit more modern, I guess. Individual tables with lanterns hanging above them. No chairs, but long plush benches around the tables. There's a bar, but there are backs on the bar stools. I think there's a billiards table over in one corner. And there's a large round stage at the very back of the place. You've got a little jazz ensemble on the left side: A piano, a stand-up bass player, a trumpet player, and a small drum set. At the edge of the stage is one standing microphone, like the ones you keep seeing in all those period pieces I mentioned; an elliptical shape with ridges in it.

I am impressed.

I also take note that there aren't many tables that are vacant. Each one has at least three or four guys sitting at them. I only notice a few women that aren't employees here. They're sitting at one table close to the stage. I don't blame 'em.

We're asked to sit at one open table maybe ten feet from the stage. First Sher- er, Mike, slides down, then John, then me. The lady that escorted us then goes back to the doorway. Guess she's just the usher.

Okay, deep breath, Greg. We're in. The lights are kind of dim, so I don't think you'll be recognised. Just relax, focus on making Mike look good, and try to have a good time. I exhale. What's it that John's always sayin'?

It'll all be fine.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Why am I here again? Oh, right, because Sherlock insisted. And while I do feel like I should be here, helping him as always, I have a kid. It feels like nine times out of ten, I'm not there for him; my babysitter is. Which is probably true, sadly. Not that she's a bad person, mind, but I feel bad about it. No, awful about it. I mean, the boy's not even a year old, and I'm sitting in a nightclub with a couple of friends. Some parent I'm turning out to be.

Mary would be _so_ impressed.

I really don't know what I should do to help Sherlock look better for the League. Greg doesn't seem to really know what to do either. Though, I guess just sitting here with our mouths shut will do the job just fine.

I look around at some of the other tables. The blokes here look really well dressed. Three-piece suits with neckties and pocket squares. Some in nice dress shoes, oxfords, loafers and the like. There's even a few wearing nice hats. And here _I_ am, wearing Greg's coat, Sherlock's shirt, and a pair of black jeans, that, thankfully, actually _are_ mine.

Alright, John, just relax. Thing's will work out. If anything goes wrong, you brought your revolver. How I managed to get that past Greg, I'll probably never know. Either way, you're prepared for the worst and hoping for the best.

It'll all be fine.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the Guise of Michael Cabin)

As I look around, I notice that we really are at the right spot. Almost every man here has some degree of red hair. That Dimmock really does have a decent head on his shoulders. I decide to take into account my surroundings. There's a back door out behind the billiards table. Hardly visible. Good for getaways. There's an expansive backstage, good for hiding anything or anyone. The dim lighting makes it hard to really make out anyone's face unless you're right up next to them at their table. I'd say this is a perfect little hideout.

I am impressed, albeit mildly.

John and Lestrade are trying their hardest to look comfortable, but I realise they are not. I do feel sorry, but I need their help. I hope I can make them see that once this is all over.

I then see a table of women over by the stage. There's four of them sitting together. One of them looks oddly familiar...

"Good evening. Welcome to the Crimson Lantern. Can I get you anything to drink?" I'm snapped out of my memory by a woman's voice. It's sort of an alto-toned voice, but a high alto. I turn my head and see her standing there. Naturally she's five-foot-ten, but she's wearing two-inch heels. Her face is a bit round, but her chin is pointed. Her eyes have a bit of an upward slant, but she's clearly Caucasian. It's a little confusing. Something about her features does hold some familiarity, but I'm not sure what, since I have never seen her before. "Sir?"

"Hm? Oh, so sorry. Just lost in your eyes," I say. Mentally, I'm cringing that I'm even speaking in such a way, but I have to to keep up appearances. She giggles. My god, it worked.

"Yours are pretty hypnotic, as well," she tells me. I smile to her. "Anyway, what can I get you gentlemen?"

"In all honesty, miss, we've never been here before. Any recommendations?" I ask, trying to establish my part as the leader.

"Well, there is a little something here. It's called 'Crimson Glow'. Care to try? It's not all that strong," she offers. I look to John and Lestrade. They look at me and nod.

"Sure. We'll have three glasses," I order. She nods and writes it down. She then walks off towards the bar. I decide to look back over at the women's table by the stage to see if I can make out who that other woman is. There's three sitting there now. The one I noticed earlier left. So much for that idea.

The waitress comes back and sets our drinks down on the table. They're bright red in paper lantern-shaped glasses. Must be a specialty of theirs.

"Here you are. Enjoy!" she says.

"Thanks, er..." I start. She giggles again.

"Maria," she tells me.

"Michael. Mike for short," I tell her. She then comes around to my side of the table and shakes my hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mike."

"Pleasure's mine, Maria," I say with a little wink. She laughs again. It's a sweet laugh. Not as ingratiatingly and painfully sweet as Rhoda's. It's more... subtle. She then leaves to take care of some other tables. Lestrade then leans to my ear.

"I think she likes you, Mike," he tells me, remembering I'm someone else, thankfully. I smile to myself a bit, probably because I successfully charmed her at first meet.

"I'd say so," I whisper back and take a sip of my drink. It's an interesting blend. Cherry is the predominant flavor. Though there is some... mango, I think, in there. I take another sip. There's a little sourness to the second sip. There must be some lemon squeezed into this. It's not all that bad. I'm no connoisseur, but it's good.

We sit at our table, sipping our Lanterns, glancing at the other tables, and listening to the soft jazz music in the background for about an hour. Maria comes back every once and again to check on us. She's very kind.

Suddenly, the music stops, and there's a tall man standing at the microphone.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Thank you all for coming here! Now that it's eight, it's time for open mic!" he announces. The crowd starts applauding as the band makes a little riff. "So, first, let's see what song we'll be doing tonight," he said, taking an envelope from his coat pocket. He opened it and read the card inside. "'The Way You Look Tonight - Jazz arrangement!' Won't that be lovely, eh? So, let's swing the spotlight round and see which table our evening's crooner will come from."

The Viewpoint of DI Lestrade

Please don't let it be here. Please don't let it be here. Please don't let it be here. Please don't let it be here. Please don't let it be here.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Please don't let it be here. Please don't let it be here. Please don't let it be here. Please don't let it be here. Please don't let it be here.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

I pull out my phone. Search: The Way You Look Tonight Jazz. Select lyrics. Find sheet music. I look over the words and memorise the tune. As soon as I finish, I find that our table is a lot brighter than earlier. "Seems we've found our table, ladies and gents! So, which of you three will be coming up to the stage?" the announcer asks. John and Lestrade look shocked as I rise from my seat.

"I will."

"And, who might you be, my good red-headed man?"

"Michael Cabin," I say. I glance quickly at the other patrons. Some of them seem to mentally note who I am. I smile.

"Well, come on up, Mr. Cabin. The stage awaits."

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

Oh, God, I hope he knows what he's doing. Can he even sing? In all the years I've known him, I've never even heard him whistle.

The Viewpoint of Dr John Watson

He's seriously going up there. If he can sing any better than he did the other day, this should be good. I just hope he knows the words.

Best of luck to him. He needs it.


	12. A Crimson Stage

**A/N:** Thanks to copyright laws, I cannot write all the lyrics to _The Way You Look Tonight_, but I encourage that you look it up. It's a beautiful song. (The version I envisioned Sherlock singing was Michael Bublé's cover, which was a jazz arrangement.) The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

I walk my way up to the stage, hop up the stairs, the announcer hands the microphone to me and leaves the stage. The spotlight is still on me. I decide to focus on the waitress Maria from earlier. She's standing behind John. I signal the band to start playing. With the intro almost over, I take a deep breath and...

_Some day, when I´m awfully low_

_When the world is cold_

_I will feel a glow just thinking of you_

_And the way you look tonight..._

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

My God. He's _good_. I had absolutely no idea. He's got the crowd absolutely mesmerised. I don't know how he's managing to pull this off, but I am impressed. I look over to the table with the women at it. They're all practically swooning at him. I then look at all the other tables. They seem to be nodding their approval. But... there's one man that still looks stern. He's wearing what I think is a brown suit, a fedora to match with a red band, and a red necktie. Hard to tell in this lighting. I look back over at Sherlock to make sure they don't think I'm staring at them.

That's gotta be their leader. And I think Sherlock's got his attention.

_...And that laugh that wrinkles your nose_

_It touches my foolish heart _

I then hear a slight giggle behind me. It's the waitress, Maria. She's standing behind John. And Sherlock's looking straight at her. I let out a tiny chuckle. That cheeky little bastard.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

His voice really does sound like a jaguar swallowed a cello. A Stradivarius cello. He's good. Really good. Not to mention he has great stage prescence. Who would've guessed? Okay, going back to my theory that he took acting class as a kid. There's no doubt he did something on stage before now. Just going to have to figure out what. I'll ask him when we get back to the flat.

His voice carries him up to a slight key change, so it's higher now. It's so... _effortless_. I'm jealous.

_Lovely, don´t you ever change_

_Keep that breathless charm_

_Won´t you please arrange it?_

_´Cause I love you_

_Just the way you look tonight._

With that, the song ends, the crowd applauds soundly. Greg and I can't help but applaud, as well. I then notice that there's a rather rapid clapping noise behind me. It's Maria. I had no idea she was behind me. Way to go, soldier. Can't even notice a _woman_ sneaking behind you. Good job.

Anyway, Sherlock takes a bow and starts coming off the stage. He walks back to our table, and the patrons return to their drinks as before. He slides back into his seat next to Greg.

"How was that? Good show?" he asks. Right. He's still Michael at this point. Keep forgetting.

"Wonderful! You were excellent up there!" Maria chimes. Michael beams at her.

"Thanks, Maria," he purrs. Then he _winks_ at her. I sure hope she doesn't notice what an odd look I'm throwing at him. It'd probably ruin the image. Even so, who knew he'd be this good at getting a girl?

"Do you have a spare napkin?" she asks. Michael grabs mine, pulls a pen from Greg, and hands them to her.

"You did want something to write with, right?" he inqures. She gives another small giggle.

"Yep." She then scribbles down something on the napkin. Fairly sure it's her number. "Here you are. Gimme a ring sometime, huh?"

"Will do."

"I've got to get going. My shift's about over. See you!" And with that, she heads off back to the bar to probably get her things.

"Well, that went well, don't you think?" Michael asks us, pocketing the napkin and handing Greg back his pen. He then stares at one of the other tables. He seems to take notice of a table further over. I notice that there's a man in a hat over there. "Excuse me, gents," he says, and he walks over to the man. The two of them start talking. I think he's their boss. Gotta be. Only one in a hat.

The hat man invites Michael to sit down. He sits opposite him. The two are now still talking, but in a less public form. I look away for a moment, to make sure they don't think I'm staring. I then see Greg's got an eye on them. Good. We both can't stare. I then decide to glance over at the women's table by the stage. They appear to be glaring at the bar... At Maria. Heh. Jealous, I bet. Greg then bumps my arm, letting me know that Sherlock's coming back. He sits back down with a smug look on his face that, while being Sherlock's signature facial expression, still manages to look like someone else.

"I'm in," is all he says.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

Lestrade and John stare at me wide eyed. They then nod and smile at me as if to congratulate me. I look up and see Maria. She looks worried for some reason. I decide to go and talk to her.

"Pardon me," I say to my friends, and I head over to her. "Maria? What's the matter?"

"I..." she starts. She then leans in close to my ear. "Walk wth me outside, please?" I nod, and I escort her out.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

What the-? He's already taking her out? Moving a little fast, mate! That _never_ works! _Trust _me!

At least, that's what I would be yelling if I didn't want to attract attention, much less the attention of a bunch of gangsters. Especially when I'm with Scotland Yard. Not only would that blow Sherlock's cover, it'd probably nearly get us all killed.

I sure hope Sherlock knows what he's doing. But, frankly? I really doubt it. God have mercy on him.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

I see Greg has a surprised look on his face, so I turn to see what he's looking at. I'm a bit shocked myself.

Sherlock. Escorting Maria outside. His arm around her shoulders. Never thought I'd see the day. I turn back to my drink and stare at it, wondering what the hell is really in this thing.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

Maria and I get outside. It's awfully dark, and earlier than I told Mycroft to pick us up. Maria starts shivering, but I know it's not because she's cold. She's scared.

"What's the matter?" I ask again. She stares up at me. Looks like she's about to cry. But they're sincere. Not faked. She's genuinely worried. But what about, I have no idea.

"You... do you have any idea who those men were?" she questions. Me, I realise. She's worried about me. Yes, I do know who those men were, but Michael doesn't. Not fully.

"Why? Something you know that I ought to?" She then stares back at the ground. She sort of nestles herself in my side. I decide to hold her closer in response.

"Would you take me home?"

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

I don't believe it. I hear a taxi. He's driven off with her. I look at my watch. We're still stuck here another twenty minutes. I hit John again to let him know. He sort of shakes himself, probably shocked at this whole thing, too. He sees the time and pulls out his phone. I think he's texting our ride to get us. It's somebody named "Mycroft." Who names their kid that? Then again, I do know two people named Sherlock, now. Maybe his brother, then?

But, if that's his brother... why would John be texting him? Why would Sherlock have even asked for his help in the first place? From what I understand from what Sherlock's told me, the two of them are like oil and water. Maybe something's changed that I don't know? Well, how would I? I've never met the guy.

John puts away his phone and mouths to me "We'll leave in two minutes." I nod and slump in my seat, staring at this Glow-thing, or whatever it's called.

Now what the hell do we do?


	13. A Long Cold Night

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Greg and I are now standing outside the Crimson Lantern, waiting for Mycroft to show back up with the limo. Did I mention it's cold and starting to rain? Yeah, it's raining. Bit of a cruel irony, seeing as how Sherlock kind of left us in the cold. And here I thought things would be a bit different, but no. Arrogant sod's still rushing off without telling anyone where the hell he's going or what the hell he's planned or thought up. Dammit, it's freezing. Okay, technically it's about 8 or 9 degrees Celsius, not actually freezing, but whatever. I'm cold. Wouldn't be surprised if I wake up with a cold. How long is Mycroft gonna take getting here? I make a small audible snort of frustration, clutching my jacket that isn't even mine closer to me so I can try to warm up.

Lovely night this turned out to be, huh?

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

I guess old habits die hard, eh, Sherlock? Figures the guy'd take off like he did. But looks like John's taking it a bit to heart again, given that short snort of his. He really shouldn't. Besides, the man was in disguise. He was being someone else. I hope John can understand that. Sure, he's worried. I'm worried myself. But, he's a grown man. Impulsive, yes, but grown. And he's been at this for a long time. He knows what he's doing...

I hope.

I hear a car driving up. It's the limo from earlier this evening. The door opens up and we're greeted by the pop of an umbrella. Out steps a rather tall man in a rather prim suit with rather nice shoes. He holds up the umbrella for us and gestures for us to go in first. John barrels past him and near catapults into the car. I nod my thanks to the man and slide into my seat. Then he gets in and closes his brolly and shuts the door. Then we're off, presumably back to 221b.

"Now, John, you mustn't be so upset. You should know by now how my brother operates," the man tells John with a soothing tone.

"He could at least text," John curtly says.

"Not when he's disguised. He must keep up appearances in order to accomplish his goal. I highly doubt he meant anything against either of you by leaving without you."

John says nothing in reply. Just sulks and stares out the window. The other man sighs and shakes his head slightly, like he's given up trying to convince John.

"Well, then, I don't believe we've met. I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elder brother. It's good to meet you, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft says, holding his hand out. I take it and we shake. I'm a little taken aback, and I'm about to tell him so, when he lets out a small chuckle. "Sherlock told me all about you during his year-long dependence on me."

Year-long? It takes me a second, but I then remember that Sherlock had disappeared for one year. He must have relied on his brother to support him during that time.

"Well, I'm afraid the knowledge isn't mutual. He's barely told me anything about you. I didn't even know your name until now. Sure, he's mentioned you offhand, unfortunately not in a kind way, but he doesn't talk about you."

"As to be expected. We haven't really gotten along all too well. We still aren't all that close, but I have regained some of his trust. I call that a bit of a victory, wouldn't you?"

I nod in agreement. All the way back to 221b, we chat. He tells me he's seven years older than Sherlock, has a bit of a lazy streak, but is a mean chess player. He finds out from me that I used to play football and rugby when I was in school, but I sprained my knee when I was 19, so I hardly ever play either anymore. I'm also two years older than him, making me nine years older than Sherlock.

All the while, John's still sulking and still staring out the window.

We finally reach Baker street, and we get out of the car. The rain's gotten worse, so Mycroft walks us to the door under his umbrella. John fumbles around in his jeans pockets and manages to fish out his key. We all head inside; John first, me second, Mycroft third. Once we're all in the sitting room, the landlady comes in with some fresh towels. God bless her. While I'm drying off, John heads upstairs, presumably to change clothes. I then see a young lady walk down. The babysitter, if I recall. Can't remember her name, though. Never was good with names. She says good night and leaves.

Mycroft and I sit in the kitchen waiting for the kettle and for John to come down. It's a bit quiet. I absentmindedly look up towards where John's room is. The worry must be plastered on my face, since Mycroft notices.

"He'll be alright. Though, I doubt Sherlock will be back until morning. I'll stay here overnight so you can go home, if you'd like," he offers. I look to him and smile.

"Thanks. Tell John I said 'bye' for me, will you?"

"Of course. Good night, Lestrade."

"G'night." Nice guy, that Mycroft. Can't imagine why he and Sherlock don't get on.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Little Sherlock's been fed, changed and put down for a nap. I remembered to pay Rebecca. I've dried off and changed clothes. I hear the front door open and shut. From the inside, must be Greg going home. I hear the kettle starting to whistle. I head downstairs. The kettle stops. I look over and see that Mycroft has picked it up and is pouring two cups of tea.

"Figured you could use one, John."

I sigh heavily and run my hand over my face.

"Yeah. I'd like something a bit stronger, but tea is probably better." Mycroft then throws me the sharpest look I've ever seen. It surprises me to say the least.

"Doctor Watson. Given your personal history involving alcohol, I'm shocked that you would say such a thing. Besides, you need to stop beating yourself up about something that is not. Your. Fault. In the least. Now sit down and have your cuppa," he finishes with a tone more akin to something Mrs. Hudson would say. I'm about to ask what he knows about my 'personal history' but Sherlock probably told him about Harry, or he figured it out himself, so asking is pretty useless at this point. I shut up, sit down in my armchair, and drink my tea. He sits in the opposite one and drinks his.

"He's not coming home tonight," Mycroft informs me. That phrase should not bother me as much as it does.

"And how do you know that?"

"No, he did not contact me in any way shape or form. And, no, leaving with a girl is not normal for him. But, I know what he's like when he's on a case. If that girl knows anything, he'll want to know all." I sink into my chair. "But that's not all. I know that he wouldn't want to bother you." I raise an eyebrow at this.

"And how is staying out the entire night 'not bothering me'?"

"He wouldn't want to wake you. He knows that you value your sleep. He also probably knows that you've asked me to take you home, and either I or Lestrade are here with you. You're fine."

He's right. But I'm still worried. I can't help it. I'm worried and upset. Don't understand why I'm upset, but I am. I guess just because he bolted, but I should be a bit more used to that idea. He doesn't need me tagging along everywhere. Even though it's fun following him every which way. And I'm sure he appreciates my assistance when I can give it. But, I know there are things only he can figure out.

So, why am I sitting up late at night worried sick like some mother hen?

"Go to bed, John. I'll keep watch. And if I end up tired, I'll just kip on the couch. Go on and sleep. It's fine."

I finish my cup, nod my thanks to Mycroft, set it in the sink, and head on upstairs.

I don't think I'll be getting much sleep, though.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

Maria and I had taken a taxi back to her flat. It's about the size of Baker Street, but it doesn't look as... Victorian as ours does.

Simple furnishings, key lime pie green walls, beige carpet. No evidence of another person living here. No signs of having constant visitors, given the welcome mat being in near pristine condition. Only one set of footprints on it repeatedly - hers. She keeps a clean house, everything is hoovered. She's a music lover, given the rather expensive stereo in the back corner. Small telly, doesn't watch it much, but she still keeps it dusted. Her kitchen is very clean, just as clean as the sitting room. She was raised to keep a clean house, or she grew up in a not so clean place and thus has strove to keep her place clean. More likely the latter than the former.

She has few photographs of family out, but a couple stuck to her refrigerator. There's one of a young girl - presumably Maria - with a blonde woman out in the countryside. Must be her mother, and possibly near where she grew up. The other is again of her mother, but she's older now. Her mother looks ill, pale yellowed skin, not because of the quality of the photograph. Hepatitis. Died from it, most likely. No evidence of a father figure.

Conclusion: Raised by single mother, mother died in recent years, moved to London to not only get a job, but possibly to find who her father was.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asks me. I have to snap back to Michael.

"Oh, no I'm alright. What about you? You okay?" I ask her. She then gets that worried look that she had back at the club. She pours herself a glass of water and we both sit on her sofa. "Is it about those men?"

"Yes. You have no idea what you've gotten into. Those people are monsters. Devils. They've done atrocious things to the other waitresses and other patrons. They're horrid. I think the only reason I've been able to go unscathed is because of my hair. I'm not a full redhead, but I am at least strawberry blonde. Though, I don't think that'll shield me for long..." she trails off. She's worried about someone.

"Why's that?"

"They've attacked a red-haired man. I saw it in the paper. They never attack one of their own. But now..." She then looks me square in the eyes. "You need to watch yourself, Mike. You seem like such a sweet man. I don't want to see you end up in a hospital, too." I put on a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry. I'll be alright," I tell her. But she's not convinced. She stands right up.

"Don't you get it? You're going to be working with a mob of murderers. If you don't watch yourself, you may end up murdered too!"

...Someone she knows has been hurt by them. Someone close to her. Previous suitor? No, this is more like family. But her mother died of natural causes. Sibling? No sign of one in the photographs, but if her father were out there, he could have fathered other children with other women. Did she meet one of these children? Or did she find out who her father was? Although... this emotion doesn't seem like one she's held for a long time. Seems almost... recent.

"Of course..." I mutter to myself. "The man from the paper. Is he your father?"

She looks at me, shocked. She sits back down, mouth open agape. I may have given up my disguise, but I at least know she's not one of them. They're the ones I have to convince.

"Who the hell are you? Private detective?" she asks. I return to my normal facial expression. I switch to my normal vocal tone. I keep my gaze.

"Consulting Detective, thank you,"


	14. A Misunderstanding

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

"Consulting detective?" Maria parrots. "Is that some sort of halfway between a police detective and a private one?"

"Not exactly," I reply. "I would go into detail, but it seems we have more pressing matters at hand. You are Jabez Wilson's daughter, correct?" She falls silent and stares facing the opposite wall. I notice her eyes starting to well up.

"Yes. I really only figured it out a week ago, but I've been in London for longer. I've been trying to talk to him, let him know what happened to Mother, let him see that I've grown up... But every time I start getting close, he distances himself from me. Like he's... I don't know, shunning me for some reason or another," she explains. "I wish I could have found out why. And now _this_ happens to him!" she cries, picking up the newspaper with the police report. She puts it back down on the coffee table and composes herself with a small sigh. "Admittedly, I've been doing a bit of investigating myself. As soon as I noticed that some of our regular patrons started disappearing, I would personally wait on the tables with the League members. You know, see what I can pick up. I've heard terrible things no human should ever hear. Murders, mutilations, you name it. It's awful. I've never been on the receiving end of one of their attacks-" she knocks the coffee table with her knuckles "-But I know people who have. Rather... knew. None of them have lived. Which is why... which is... why..." she starts, but cannot finish.

"Which is why you're extremely upset about your father's fate," I offer. She nods.

"Please, Mike, you cannot tell anyone. Anyone. Promise me that no one else will know that I'm really Maria Wilson and not Maria Thatcher. _Please_," she begs. I find it curious that she still refers to me as Mike. She must not have heard of me or my line of work. I figured the 'consulting detective' title would give it away, but I suppose not.

"Of course, Maria. But you must promise me something in return."

"What's that?"

"Never tell anyone that I'm really a consulting detective, or even a detective at all. Understand?" She nods.

"Of course." She then smiles at me. It's a very warm smile. For some reason unknown to me, I end up smiling back. I figure it may be a reflex, like yawning after someone else has. I'll have to ask John about that... I then look at my phone. It's extremely late. I'd better not head back. I don't want to wake him up. I'll text him.

_John, I'm sorry I'm texting so late, but I'm currently with-_

Unfortunately, I can't finish my text. My phone shuts off. Out of battery. I knew I should have charged this one before leaving the flat! Stupid, stupid! My frustration must be visible to Maria, for she looks at me with a puzzled face.

"My phone died. I was trying to text my flatmate, let him know where I was," I explain.

"You can use mine, if you want. By the way, what time is it, anyway?" she asks.

"00:32," I answer.

"Really? That late? And the rain hasn't let up at all... Tell you what, why don't you stay here overnight?" she offers. I'm about to accept, when she starts blushing. "Ah, that is, I didn't mean anything by it. Just because I wouldn't want you catching cold or anything. That's all. Really," she says hurriedly. At first I'm confused by her statement, but then I realise what she might have accidentally implied.

"Thanks," is all I say. She then goes into her room. She quickly returns with a small mobile with a green casing around it. She hands it to me, and I begin to text John.

_John, I'm sorry I'm texting so late, but I'm going to be staying overnight with Maria. I won't be back until morning. Don't worry, I'm fine. By the way, please locate my phone charger, as my phone has died. I'm using hers. Thanks. -MC_

I sign it MC because she's standing near me, and still thinks that's my name. I send the message, and hope it reaches him.

"I'll bring you an extra pillow," she says, and I devise the most comfortable position on the couch for me to be able to sleep. Might be the only sleep I get in a while.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

I think I hear my phone buzz, but I'm not sure, since it's hard to hear when you're on the top floor of a flat and relentless rain is pounding on the rooftop. I'm probably just imagining it, since I'm mostly asleep at this point. Little Sherlock seems perfectly content in his cot. I guess the rain is soothing for him. In all honesty, it's starting to have a soporific effect on me, too. I yawn, turn off my bad shoulder, and start to drift again...

When I open my eyes again, the rain had stopped. It's still late, but that figures. Sherlock's hungry, since he's crying. I wrestle my way out of my covers and take him downstairs, holding my boy to try to calm him a bit. Once I reach the sitting room, I look over to the couch. Mycroft is lying on it, umbrella propped against the armrest. He's actually asleep. Then again, I figure he sleeps better than his brother, crazy insomniac that he is.

I sit there in my armchair, in the dark, cradling Sherlock as he drinks from his bottle. I look away from him for a second and look up. In my line of vision, just barely visible thanks to the hour, is Sherlock's chair. Flatmate Sherlock, not baby Sherlock, mind. His violin case is propped up against the left side of it. I can almost imagine one of his little pieces, swimming through my head. I inadvertently start humming it. I close my eyes remembering. It was one of the ones he played before...

The memory of the falls snaps me back.

Even though he's really alive, I still can't stand to remember.

I look at little Sherlock again. The bottle is empty, his stomach is full, and thus he's fallen asleep again. He does look a bit like me. Or, at least my baby pictures. I wish Mary could have seen this. Seen our boy so content. I miss her.

I put the bottle in the sink to wash it in the morning, and head back to my room. Once I put my boy back to bed, I crawl into mine. I drift back to sleep with my boy on my mind.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

I awake the next morning a little stiff, but alright. I notice that a blanket has been put over me when there wasn't one when I went to sleep. Maria must have put it on me. I then smell something coming from the kitchen.

"Do you like eggs?" Maria calls from inside.

"Yes, but I can't stomach too many," I tell her. "Thank you for the blanket."

"You're welcome. You looked a bit cold." I then walk into the kitchen to see her making a couple of omelets. I admit, I probably don't eat as much as I ought to, and I rarely ever feel hunger, but these do look appetizing. She directs me to the small table in the kitchen and invites me to sit. A coffee pot is percolating near the stove top. She then puts each omelet on a plate, setting one down before me, the other by the other chair. The burners are then turned off, she pulls down a couple of mugs from a cupboard, and pours two cups of coffee. "How do you like your coffee?" she asks.

"Black, two sugars," I respond. She then does exactly that. For her own cup, she puts something in it I don't recognise.

"It's a mix of cinnamon and sugar. My mother would put cinnamon sugar on my toast when I was little. It kind of reminds me of her," she explains. I nod and we eat.

Once done, she puts the dishes in her small dishwasher. She then checks her mobile for the time.

"It's about seven. If you're worried about your flatmate, you probably should head on out," she says. I agree and we walk to the door.

"Thank you for your hospitality," I say. She smiles again.

"You're welcome. Feel free to stop by anytime. Take care of yourself, okay?" she says, and then she does something completely unexpected by me. She pecks me on the cheek. I'm taken aback, but I only show it for a second.

"I will," I reply as calmly as I can. She then starts blushing again.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to, I just... Well... See you."

I shoot her a smirk and head out the door, hailing a taxi on my way out.

Once I arrive back in 221b, I head up the seventeen steps. I then hear John's voice. He's talking with someone. The someone replies. It's my brother.

"John? What's Mycroft doing here?" I ask.

"I told you he'd be back. Oh! And, sofa," Mycroft announces.

"So, you got my text, then?" I ask. John doesn't answer right away.

"What text?" he asks sourly.

"I sent you a text! So, I sent it rather late, and it wasn't from my phone, but I did send one! Check your phone!" I answer a but frustrated.

"Not going to bother." Mycroft then stands.

"I understand that this is something between the two of you, and I really must be going. I have work to attend to. Good day." He then leaves. I sit down in my chair, trying to look at John. He stares at the fireplace. Brow furrowed. He's upset.

"John," I start, but he cuts in.

"Don't. You left. You left me and Greg in a dark club with a ton of murderers. By ourselves. No explanation."

"Is that what this is about? John, I did text-"

"Shut up! I don't care," he spits at me. I'm shocked. I sit back and let him speak. "Don't do this to me again, Sherlock. Don't just run off like you used to. I can't stand it. Seeing you disappear again." I then realise what this is about.

"I understand your worry, John. Next time, I will let you know beforehand exactly what I am doing and where I am going," I promise him calmly. This seems to do the job, as John relaxes his facial muscles and slumps back in his chair. "Now, then. About two o'clock this afternoon, I will be heading to my first meeting. Again, it's at the Crimson Lantern. There will only be four of them with me. I will take every precaution to guard myself. Including making sure there is a security camera within range, so Mycroft can see me, if that will ease your worry." John nods that it will. "Alright then. Now, can you please help me find my mobile charger? My phone died last night..." John clears his throat. I look up.

He's holding the charger with a small smirk on his face.


	15. A Small Dose

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"_Lullaby and goodnight, go to sleep, little baby..._" I try to calm Little Sherlock. But, no. No good. I mean, I don't think I'm an atrocious singer. I can carry a tune well enough. Sure, I'm not winning 'Britain's Got Talent' or whatever that Cowell guy is hosting now, but I'm not horrid. Even so, my boy's not having any of it. He's squirming and squabbling like some sort of irate chicken.

I try rocking him and bouncing him. Doesn't work.

I try feeding him. He knocks the spoon of carrot-flavoured paste in my face. Half of it goes up my nose.

I check to see if he needs changing, and he doesn't. There's no rashes or irritation anywhere on his body, either. His clothes are washed and soft. I go ahead and give him a new nappy anyway, and change his socks. He's. Still. Crying.

"I don't understand..." I mutter under my breath. Something's wrong. But, I can't pinpoint what. ...What if he's ill? I don't know. I mean, yeah, I'm a doctor, but I'm not a pediatrician. Just then, there's a knock on the door. I look out the window to find Greg standing outside. I open the window.

"Door's open, Greg!" I call to him. He looks up and smiles and enters. I'm still worrying over Little Sherlock when Greg gets up the seventeen steps.

"Oof. What's going on?" he asks, probably because of the unending screeching.

"I don't know what's wrong. I've tried singing, moving him about, toys, food, changing. Nothing's worked," I lament. Greg then walks over to my boy. He sort of studies him. Looking him over, like it's an interrogation or something. He then grimaces slightly.

"Got a baby thermometer? Got a feeling he has a fever."

"A-a fever? You can tell just by looking at him?" A fever. Really. Brilliant diagnosis, John. Well done. You can leave your medical liscence in the bin on your way out. I shuffle around among my things and find it.

"Yeah. That crying is 'sick-squealing' as I call it. After a few months or so, you start to be able to understand their little code. Translating their cacophony into demands. Give it time," he replies sagely, as I take the boy's temperature. It is certainly high. "Take him to a pediatrician. They'll prescribe some drops for him to take for the next week or so. If the fever persists, go again."

"Thanks... It's just-" I start, but Greg puts up a hand to stop me.

"If Sherlock shows back up, I'll let him know what's going on. I'll house-sit if you want." God bless this man. I thank him and take my boy out to the clinic.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

As soon as the door closes, I collapse into John's armchair. It's a lot nicer than mine, I'll tell ya that. Boy, that feels familiar. Not the chair, the kid. Crying like that. I remember plenty a restless night listening to the symphony of screaming.

Never thought I'd give parental advice to anyone. Specially since I haven't seen my own kids for... what, seven years? Yeah, seven. That's when she took 'em. No right to, the cheating...

I sigh and run a hand over my face. It's hard. Even after seven years. I won't say I don't miss her, but after what she did, I'm a bit indifferent now. It's the kids I miss. She's almost twelve and he's turned nine two and a half weeks ago. I called, like I always do. I sent a card, like I always do. Never hear back from them, though. Not ever. I hope they're well.

In the middle of my reminiscing, I hear the door open.

"John, dear? I'm back," an elderly woman calls. Oh, what was it again? Herschfeld? Huggins? No, wait-

"Mrs. Hudson?" I call. No protest. Good, got it this time. She darts up the stairs as well as she can.

"Oh, afternoon, detective inspector. Ah, Sherlock's not in trouble again, is he?" she asks tentatively, remembering the last time I came here uninvited.

"No, no. I'm here house-sitting. John's gone out to take his son to the doctor. Running a fever. Told him I'd stay here in case Sherlock showed up," I explain.

"Oh, the poor dear. I do hope the little one will be alright," she frets. I smile to her to assure her. She smiles back. "If you need anything, let me know. I may not be a housekeeper, but I'm not opposed to entertaining guests."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

I arrive at the Crimson Lantern right on time. The men are waiting. They enter, and I follow. They motion to a table, and we sit. I sit there, patiently. No one speaks. I suppose this is one of those "awkward silences" John keeps talking about. Then a man from the back entrance appears. He's wearing a red suit and hat. The leader I met with last night.

"Glad to see you could make it, Mr. Cabin," he says, holding out a hand. I shake it. "William Morris. Commander of the Red-Headed League."

"Wouldn't miss it," I reply in my Cabin-tone.

"First order of business is filling you in on just what you're getting into. We're almost ready to make our move. But, we're waiting until Sunday night," Morris explains.

"Why Sunday?" I ask, feigning ignorance. I know why they're waiting until Sunday.

"The bank's closed that day. No one is in. There may be a few guards, but that won't be a problem. No one will be in where we're going."

"Wait a tic... we? And... bank? Wh-what are we doing?" I ask nervously. I know what they want from the bank, but I can't let on that I do.

"We're going to break into it, we're going to rob it of its new mint of yen, and we're going to use it for foreign trade. And if you aren't okay with that, we'll use the _back_ door. That's what we call 'The Gate to Hell.' Don't think you wanna go there, now do you?" Morris asks.

"No, sir," I reply, adding a slight gulp at the end for effect.

"Good man. Now, for your part. You will say nothing. You will not act until we tell you. You are to lead the charge."

"Me?"

"Yes. You seem like a sharp guy. If you see anything, you'll signal us down there."

"But... what if I'm caught?"

"Well... I guess it was nice knowing you, then," Morris answers. So, the tunnel is finished, they're going to strike when no one's there, and they're going to have _me_ take the fall for it. _Would_ be a clever idea, if it were anyone but me they were using. I nod, letting them know I realise I haven't a choice in the matter. The men smile. One pats me on the shoulder. Morris rises and then the rest of us. "Welcome to the League, Mr. Cabin."

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

It's about an hour and a half later before John and his boy come back. He's got a prescription bag, which confirms my earlier statement.

"How is he?" I ask

"He'll be fine, as long as he takes these droplets. I'm supposed to give him one now, but we'll see how that goes," he adds halfheartedly. He proves his point by trying to get Little Sherlock, as he's been calling him, to take the medicine. He's jerking around like some American rodeo horse. Braying just like one on helium, too. I shake my head.

"Okay. Gimme," I say, holding my hand for the dropper. John stares at me for a second, but then hands it to me. I then crouch so I'm eye level with the kid. "Sherlock?" I whisper gently. "Sherlock? Come on, kiddo. Look at me. There we go," I remark, and he has stopped crying and is looking right at me. "Aaah," I say, sticking my tongue out. He doesn't imitate me yet. "Aaah!" I repeat, this time crossing my eyes a bit. He giggles. Good, he's recognising it. One more time ought to do it. "Aaah!" I say once more, and before I know it...

"Aaah!" Little Sherlock exclaims, displaying his tongue for me as I did. Then we do it together. Then, I hold my "Aaah" for a little longer. He echoes. That's when I take my chance. I drop the medicine in his mouth. He starts right up in surprise and smacks his mouth a few times. But, he doesn't cry.

"There you are. That always works. If you need me to pop over again, let me know, eh?" I say. John's looking at me completely flabbergasted.

"How... did you... know how to do that? What do you mean 'always works'?" he says, stunned. Now I know how Sherlock feels on occasion.

"Experience," is all I give him. I then look at his little tyke and can't help but sigh.

"You're a father," John deduces.

"Mmhm," I nod.

"I had no idea."

"Seven years. Divorced. Lost custody." John gives me an apologetic look. "Don't apologise. You didn't know. How could you? Never hinted at it before. Sherlock does know, though. It's part of how we met five years ago." John then shoots me a confused look. I smile to him. "Look, I'll tell you the story some other time. I have to get back to the Yard. Don't forget to tell Sherlock that he's still helping us with this one, huh?" I ask. John nods, and I take my leave, waving bye to the tyke. Cute kid.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Wow. A divorcee. Guess there's a lot about Greg that I still don't know. There's a lot about most of the people I know that I don't know. Mostly 'cause I never ask. I'm not really one to go into people's personal lives. Little Sherlock looks sleepy. The doctor did say that was one of the side effects. I gather him up and gently put him to bed. I tuck him in and he yawns. It won't be too long before he starts teething. Maybe in two, three more months at most. I hear the door open, but just slightly. I leave my room and head down the stairs to see Sherlock coming up the other stairs.

"Alright?" He looks up suddenly. I actually startled him. Must've been _deep_ in thought for me to have done that.

"Yeah. Just... thinking. We have two days. Sunday night is when we can make our move, for that is when they'll be making theirs. Or rather, when _you _can make _your _move. I'll be on the other end."

"With the League?"

"Yeah. I'm the first one up. Their fall guy if anything goes awry."

"Which it will."

"Undoubtedly." We sit in our respective armchairs. "Which means you'll have to take over the investigation for the time being for me."

"Me?"

"Well of course. Who else?"

"Um, Greg? He's the one who put you to the case. Or, Dimmock? He's the one who told us about the League's true purpose in the first place." Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, John. It has to be you. I can't talk to the police, but I can talk to you. Please, John."

So, now _I've_ been promoted to Consulting Detective. Best of luck to me. I'll need it.


	16. A Sense of Foreboding

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

I've decided to make a visit to my client at the hospital, since I have one day before the crime is committed. I can't afford to go back to being me just yet. In case any of them are watching me. Any red-headed man in London - sans one - could be in the League. After a bit of discussion with the nurses, I find my way to Mr. Wilson's room. However, he's not alone.

"Maria?" I call. Indeed, it is she. The girl I deduced was Wilson's daughter. She turns to me with worn eyes. She was crying. She charges at me and falls into my arms. She's practically sobbing into my shirt. I decide to try to comfort her, mostly because I'd like her to be able to speak to me coherently. But, in part, I admit, it's because I don't want to see her cry. Not entirely sure why. I'll ask John later. "What's the matter?" I ask, and we sit down in a couple of chairs near Wilson's bed.

"It's... it's not looking good. He lost a lot of blood. Sure, he's lucky to even be alive... but, he recently became unresponsive. He may be in a coma. He could..." She trails off, struggling to contain her emotions. "He could... Oh, Mike, he could die!"

"Could, not will," I assure her. "I've got a feeling he'll be okay."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"While that is part of the point, it's not the only reason," I say. She looks up at me, her eyes red from crying, shining with more tears at the ready. "I really do believe he'll live. Besides, if he does, your search would have all been for naught. I don't think it is. He'll wake up." Saying this seems to elicit a smile from her. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"Thank you."

A doctor comes to send us out, as they need to monitor him and can't afford us staying inside any longer. So, I help her back to her place. I decide that she could use some tea. That always helps John when he's down like this. I put a kettle on for her. We then sit in the sitting room waiting for the water.

She's quiet. Thinking.

"Mike?" she says finally.

"Hm?"

"Are you any closer to figuring out how to stop the League?" she tentatively inquires.

"Yes," I answer.

"How close?" she asks, worriedly.

"Very."

"Are you going to do something to them? Have them arrested?"

"Well, you'll just have to wait for Monday's paper to find that out. Sunday is when I make my move." I admit, I may be acting a bit unlike myself, trusting this woman with minor details of my case, but since she's wrapped up in it herself, I decide to trust her.

"I see..." she says. She then stares over at her stereo system.

"You like music?" I ask, changing the subject to something a little less... foreboding. It works, as she perks up at my asking.

"Oh, yes. Always loved it. Especially string music. In fact, there's a concert coming to the St. James Hall on Monday night that I'd really like to go to-" She stops suddenly and sighs.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, really. It's just... I'd never be able to go. Can't get tickets. They're quite a bit pricey, even the cheap seats higher up."

"What's on the programme?"

"Mostly German works, from what I've read." That certainly piques my interest. I myself am partial to such works. More my taste than Italian or French works, anyway. I'm neutral about Russian, personally.

"Shame you can't go," I say. She nods.

"I have a CD of some of what'll be played. That is, if you want to listen..." she offers shyly. I give her a small smile and a nod. She cheerfully gets up and starts up the music. As it plays, she pantomimes playing a violin along with it. With perfect form, I might add. She used to play the violin for several years. The muscle memory is still there, even though I've yet to see a violin case anywhere. Although... upon further inspection, she's pantomiming the wrong part.

Correction: She played the _viola_ for several years. I decide to "play" along, moving with the violin part. We play our imaginary concert for what seems like hours. Once the CD ends, I see that it's already late afternoon.

"That was fun! But, you probably need to get home, don't you?" she says with a slight tone of disappointment. Clearly she enjoys my company. Admittedly, I'm starting to enjoy hers as well.

"Yes. Sorry." She shakes her head.

"No, no, it's alright. I'm glad you stayed. And, I'm glad you went to check on my father. Thank you." She escorts me to her door. "Promise me that I'll see you again after...?" she says. I nod.

"I promise." She then embraces me tightly. I hold her in response. Once she lets go, I open the door, wave good-bye, and hail a taxi back to the flat.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

Papers, papers, papers. God, how many slain trees are on my desk right now, anyway? When I signed up, I did it to _avoid_ a desk job. Ah, well. _C'est la vive_. I'm rifling through the mountain of documents when Donovan knocks on my door. I signal for her to come in. She does, but she's quiet. Odd, for her.

"Something on your mind?" I ask, not entirely focused on her, I admit. She walks up to my desk and rests her hands on it. I look up. She's upset about something. "What's going on?"

"I just got word from the Super that I think you should know," she says in a somber tone. Uh oh. Someone getting fired? Am _I_ getting fired? Is _she_ getting fired?

"What is it?" I ask a tad hesitantly. Donovan gulps a bit, trying to gather her thoughts, I bet.

"I figured I ought to be the one to warn you... _He's_ being transferred here."

I sit back in my chair, wide-eyed. My shoulders sink. Impossible. There's no way.

"No... no, they wouldn't... _He_ can't come here!" I fret. Donovan shakes her head.

"Not our decision. The plans are already set in stone. He'll be coming in a couple years."

"A couple... well, why would you tell me now?" I bark.

"Would you rather find out the day before, or two years before?" she asks annoyed. She has a point. I sigh and put my face in my hands. I move them so they only cover my nose and mouth. I sit there like that for a while. Donovan pulls up a chair and sits next to me.

"...Thanks for the warning, Sal," I say finally. She nods. I'm stressing out. Him, of all people. Really. Ugh. I need to work. I need to immerse myself in work. Distractions of some sort. I pick up my mobile and dial John. "Hey. Anything I can do in Sherlock's case, you wager? I need something to do."

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"Actually, yeah. Sherlock drew up a plan of what he wants done, and left me in charge of it. We move tomorrow nigh-"

"Bababe babagaba aaaa!" My baby has decided to say hello to the Detective Inspector, apparently. But, we're in the middle of an important conversation, so I can't let this go today.

"Sherlock, no! Don't-" He keeps batting at the phone.

"Bababaa bapabebabababaaa!" Clearly, he doesn't care that I'm doing something, he wants my phone. Huh. Sounds like his namesake.

"Sher- cut it out! Dad's on the phone! This isn't playtime!" He then manages to grab it and tries putting it to his - correction - _in_ his mouth. "No, stop trying to eat my phone. Sher- Sherlock! Quit it- Ugh! Blimey... really? Fussy, fussy baby. Is there caffine in your medicine?" He responds to this by batting my ear. It actually hurts a bit. "Geh! Tch- Mrs. Hud_son_!" I cry in defeat.

"What's the matter? Oh, dear..." she says, seeing that I'm practically wrestling with my son on my shoulder.

"Help," I plead. She then coos a bit and takes him up from me.

"Come now, little one, you dad is busy. Come play with Grand Auntie, huh?" she says, winking at me and taking him to my room upstairs. I sigh and plop down on the couch.

"Sorry about that. You still there?" I ask Greg.

"Yep. Heh, I remember those days. Can't say I miss 'em, but I've been there," he laughs. "So, what do you want me to do?"

I tell him the plan to meet with Wilkes Sunday night. About our trap we'll set in the vault. Lestrade takes in all that I say. He then offers the idea of a police back up in hiding outside the pawn shop. I think it's a brilliant idea, and leave that to him. He then asks me something I wasn't exactly anticipating.

"Mind if I bring Andy in on this?" he says.

"Andy? Who's that?"

"Oh, sorry. Dimmock. Andy's his first name," he corrects. Right. Well, he was the one who told us who the League was in the first place. I'm sure he'd jump at the chance to capture their head.

"Of course. But, be quiet about it. Careful. Don't want to tip 'em off," I warn. I imagine that Greg is nodding.

"Yeah, got it. See you tomorrow night, then. Later," he says. I return the sentiment and we hang up. I then head upstairs to see Mrs. Hudson and Little Sherlock. Seems he's fallen asleep.

"Mrs. Hudson, you didn't use any 'herbal soothers' on him, did you?" I joke. She giggles.

"No, no, I didn't. I guess I just have a soothing voice. Either that, or he expended all his energies on you earlier," she offers. I nod in agreement and she heads back down to her rooms. I sit down on my bed next to his cot, watching him sleep. I sigh.

Honestly? I feel terrible. All this case stuff has, well, gotten in my way. I'm no bachelor with no ties to anyone in London to speak of, anymore. I'm not some free-spirited freelancing detective. I'm a father. And I feel I haven't been much of a part in his life. Sure, I'm the one who handles him most of the time, from what I can tell. But... between having Rebecca babysit him, and leaving him with Harry on occasion... God, I've gotta be only just barely the most prominent figure in his life. I want to be _the_ prominent figure. But all these cases Sherlock asks me to help with...

I feel like I'm neglecting him.

It's not right.

And it's not fair. Not to him, not to me. Not to anyone.

Sherlock is relying on me for this case. I already promised him I'd take charge. John Watson doesn't break promises. So, I'll help. I'll do my duty this time, but...

This might be my last case with him for a while.


	17. A Discussion

**A/N:** Apologies for the skipped week. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

My son is now being fussy again and _inisists_ that he nap on my shoulder. Never thought I'd make a decent pillow. I start to feel something... trickling into my jumper. Thank goodness it's coming from his mouth. I hear a taxi pull up. Probably Sherlock. He's bounding up the steps. Wonder what's up?

"I need sanitizer." What? Okay, admittedly, that's not the strangest thing I've heard him ask.

"Dare I ask why?"

"It's just... strange. I feel strange. Maybe some paracetamol...?" He goes to the bathroom and starts rifling through the medicine cupboard.

"Ah, Sherlock? What's the matter? You feeling alright?" I ask standing, careful not to wake my boy.

"I just feel strange. I don't want to feel strange, especially since the job is tomorrow," he waves his hand dismissively.

"Right. You forget I'm a doctor?" Sherlock just kind of stops and turns.

"Right," he says after a pause. "So diagnose me."

"Sorry? From what? Your description of symptoms is a bit scant."

"Observe me and figure me out. I know you know how," he says with a bit of an "obvious" tone and sits down in his armchair. I shoot him an incredulous look. "I'm not being sarcastic, here. I honestly need you to tell me what's wrong with me."

Oh. Right. I sit down in my chair. I then start to look at him.

_Nervous. Odd, he's never nervous. But what's he nervous about? Well, he asked for sanitizer earlier. Did he touch something? Or... did someone touch _him?_ Well, that doesn't seem like something he'd be nervous about. I mean he's grabbed me by the shoulders at rather close quarters, spun me around, and it never bothered him. Okay, sure he had gloves on at the same time, but still. Well, then what sort of thing would make him so nervous-_

"You've taken nearly a minute on this."

"I'm trying to help you! Sorry I don't have a supercomputer for a brain like you do," I snark, a bit frustrated. "Er, sorry."

_Where was I? Right, what would make Sherlock nervous. Surely not the case. He's been through worse. Far worse. So, what then? Well, let's go back to the whole touching thing. Let's see... did someone hug him or something...? Wait- that's it! That waitress girl! She was a bit... clingy before. Oh, what was her name? Margie? No... Mary. Close. No, Maria. That's it. Is Maria making him nervous? _

"Maria hugged you?"

"Took you long enough. Yes. She did. And it startled me. Well, it didn't, really... but it... bothered me."

"What... kind of bothered?" I'm afraid to ask, honestly.

"I don't know. I just felt hot throughout the entire cab ride back here. It makes no sense. Physical contact shouldn't ellicit that sort of response unless it was allergies. I don't have any allergies, and if I did, I doubt I'd be allergic to hugs."

I can't help but start giggling. I know what's going on. Oh, clueless Sherlock. I'd call him that, but he'd probably toss his violin bow at me like a javelin straight at my eye.

"What? What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," I say, still giggling. Sherlock has one of those confused looks that I love seeing. I shake my head, not believing he doesn't get it. "Sherlock, think. A girl hugged you and you're bothered. What would that mean?"

"Oh, no. Don't say it." He puts a hand over his eyes.

"What? What's the problem here? I mean, she's beautiful, seems nice enough, what's the problem-"

"She still thinks I'm Mike!" he blurts. Oh. I quickly turn to Little Sherlock, making sure this didn't wake him. He shuffles for a second and yawns but that's it. I shoot a warning glance at Sherlock. "Sorry."

"No, it's just... you didn't tell you who you really were?"

"I did tell her what I really do. That I'm a Consulting Detective. I figured that since I'm the only one, that would have tipped her off. Nope. She'd apparently never heard of me."

"Oh. Tragedy."

"What am I supposed to do? I have this odd sense that I want to please her, but I can't understand where that's coming from."

"Seems to me that you l-"

"Don't. Say. It," he warns sternly, giving me a small glare.

"I was going to say 'like' not-" another small glare from him "-The other one."

"That's impossible."

"You're only human, no matter you're not a normal one."

"Still! Ohh. What do I do?" he slumps, massaging his face with his hands completely covering it, muffling his speech slightly.

"Well... what sort of things does she like?" I ask, trying to get him to relax a little. My shoulder's starting to fall asleep.

"Well," he says after a long pause, "she likes string music. She used to play the viola."

"Okay. Anythng around that you can use?"

"For?"

"You said you wanted to make her happy."

"Right..." Another pause. I've completely lost feeling in my shoulder and it's starting to creep down the rest of my arm. "She did mention that there was a concert she wanted to go to, but couldn't get tickets."

"There! Why not take her?"

"For an excursion?"

"No, Sherlock, a _date_." He stares at me in disbelief. "You know, 'two people who like each other go out and have fun.' You like string music as well. Clearly she likes you-"

"She likes Mike."

"Well, you said yourself that you've basically been you for most of the time, just under a new name."'

"That's just it. People don't like it when others lie to them about themselves."

"Gee, wonder how you found _that_ out..." I mutter under my breath.

"So, when I tell her that I'm not Michael, that I'm Sherlock, and show her that I'm not a red-head, but a dark brunette, what will she say?"

"Well, at least you're talking in absolutes. You're saying 'when' not 'if'," I note.

"This is ridiculous. I do _not_ fall in love!" he pouts, standing up rather quickly.

"Don't or won't?" I add a bit frustrated.

"Both! I do _not_ fall in love, I _will_ not fall in love, I have _never_ fallen in love and I _never_ will!" he insisits.

"Too bad, you already have." He shoots me another glare. But this time, he seems truly upset. Confused. I guess this really never has happened before.

"I don't even know if that's what it is! I have nothing out of personal experience to compare it with! This is... it's..." He lets out a frustrated growl. He then takes a deep breath and puts his hands under his nose in his thinking position. "No. That's not it. It's certainly not love. Merely a physical attraction. My body is merely reacting, not my emotions," he states. Sounds like a college professor reading a textbook.

"Well, now that you've decided on _that_ conclusion, what now?" I ask. Now my whole arm is almost asleep. He sits back down, this time crossing his legs. Hands still at his face.

"I'll take her to the concert. As myself. Besides, I'd like to see it myself. It's mostly German works. You want to come along?" he finishes quickly. I start up a bit.

"Er, me?" He nods.

"Yes, you. Do you want to come along?"

"Well... I'd like to but I don't want to be a third wheel..."

"In case you are not aware, I'm not a bicycle, John," he states.

"Figure of speech," I tell him. He nods again.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, I'm not going to barge in on your date." I give him a hard look, trying to bring to mind our second major case together when he barged in on me and Sarah's date.

"Oh." Okay, good, he gets it... I think. Either way, this does provide a good segue...

"You know, speaking of me going places with you, another thing that could prevent that is this little one here," I inform him.

"Can't you just call Rehobeth?"

"_Re-Bec-Ca_. And, no. No, I can't." I take a deep breath. Better now than never. "Listen, Sherlock, as much as I enjoy going out on cases with you, I'm not exactly as free as I used to be. I'm a father. A new father. I have a son who's not quite a year old yet. Already I've called for a babysitter far too many times. I can't keep doing this. So... I'm asking you if... well..."

"Well, what?"

"After this case, I'd like you to find someone else to go out on your cases with."

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (still dressed as Michael Cabin)

I never thought I'd hear John say such a thing. Find someone else?

"You don't want to go on cases anymore?" I ask, trying to get him to clarify his statement.

"No, that's not it. I do. But, I'd like to go on haitus, if you will. At least until he's old enough to go to preschool. Or, if it's a dire emergency, like... Oh, I don't know, Mycroft getting kidnapped, or something," he elaborates. Not that Mycroft would ever allow something like that to happen to him, I do understand his point. He wishes to spend more time with his son. Like a good father.

"Of course." I then think for a second. "Would I still be able to speak to you about cases?"

"Of course! You can still have me for a sounding board. Just... a more stationary one now. I mean, I'll still go with you on this one case, but after that, I'm on haitus."

"Understood." I let out a small sigh of relief. I'd be lost without my blogger. I then notice that his arm has gone limp, the one with the baby on it. "You might want to take him up to bed. Save your arm."

"Right," he says laughing a bit. "Thanks." He then goes upstairs to his and his son's room.

So, I am physically attracted to Maria. This is new. She is rather kind. Sharp in that she figured out on her own where her father was. I suppose she is a rather handsome woman. Perhaps I ought to try this "date" with her. Besides, it would give me a bit of an excuse to see the concert. And, if it weren't for her, I never would have known it was going on. So, how to get good seats for us? Well... it's at the St. James Hall... Who is the curator there again? I search for the answer on my phone. Once I find it, I realise that I know the man. I got him off of a massive theft charge a few years back. Believe it or not, he really did have a sinister twin trying to muddy his brother's reputation.

I don't see why I can't try to call in a favour...


	18. Action

**A/N:** Apologies for the skipped week. Have another chapter! The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

Tonight's the night. I haven't slept for a while now. Probably not since Thursday night. I suppose Michael would sleep, but it doesn't matter. I'm ready. I see that John is on the phone. Presumably with Rebecca.

"Yes, thank you ever so much. Thanks for understanding. See you tonight then. Alright, bye." He sighs as he hangs up the phone. "So, what time are you heading down?" he asks turning round.

"Ten o'clock this evening," I inform him.

"What's with you and ten o'clock? Isn't that when we went to go to find Moran?" he asks.

"That was 10:30. Not ten," I remind him.

"Right. So, you want me to head out earlier?" I nod in response.

"Yes. You leave at eight so you'll get there by 9:45." He looks a bit startled at this.

"Eight? I was thinking nine? That's what I told Rebecca..."

"Then call her again and correct your statement. You're leaving at eight. That gives you ample time to gather Lestrade and Dimmock, and is a good time to fetch Seb. You'll need him to open the vault." John nods. "So, you have the plan laid out in mind?"

"Yes. Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. Trust me."

"You know I do." He smiles. I let one side of my lips curve up as well.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

It's gotten rather late in the day. No word yet from John about when to move. I see that Andy's a bit riled up, shuffling nervously at his desk. Poor guy. It's then that my phone buzzes. A text from John.

_We move at eight. Take Dimmock to Tower 42. Have a squad out in front of Jabez's Junk about 10:30 PM. J.W._

I signal for Andy to come in my office. Thankfully he sees and enters. I show him the message. He nods and goes back to his desk to get his coat. We have about an hour and thirty to get there. We'll make it. As Andy and I head out, I tell Donovan to have a squad ready where John described and when.

"Understood, sir," she says. Andy and I then get a cab out to Tower 42.

The Viewpoint of Banker Sebastian Wilkes

Good heavens, I'm going to run a hole in my carpet. I'm pacing like mad, worried about what's going to happen. Ol' Sherly said I had about a week. It's been about a week now. It's the day the bank's closed. Good lord... Suddenly there's a knock at my door. Who could that be? One of the guys that's trying to rob me? What if they try getting me to work with them? Oh, god. I grab the first thing I can think of to use as a weapon. A golf club I had lying around.

The door knocks again. Slowly, I creep to my door, 3-Iron in hand. I can't bear to look, so I close my eyes. Carefully I twist the doorknob... I then throw the door open and raise the golf club.

"Jeez! Mr. Wilkes, calm down!" a familiar voice says. I then open my eyes to see... Sherlock's friend/colleague/boyfriend/whatever he is.

"Oh. Doctor Watson. It's just you. What are you doing at my flat? How?"

"Sherlock." Of course. "Listen, we haven't much time. Get dressed properly. We need to get to the bank." I then realise that I have been standing around in my pyjamas and dressing gown this whole time. I lower the golf club.

"Right. One moment."

Once I'm dressed, the two of us get into a cab and head for the bank. Once there, I see that two others are with us.

"Mr. Wilkes, these are Detective Inspectors Lestrade-" the grey haired one nods "-and Dimmock." The younger one nods.

"Good to meet you," I say. "Shall we?" I then lead the way inside to the secret lift to the vault in question.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

As I was previously told, I'm at the head of the group. I'm carrying a thin LED torch, navigating my way through the large tunnel, four men behind me with large duffel bags to carry the yen in. Two of them are Clay and Morris. Or Ross, whichever is his real name, if either. Clay is standing at the back, with Ross at my back. The other two are just a couple of other lackeys, like myself.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

We walk out of the lift to face a large vault. Seb puts in the entry code, careful to hide it from the rest of us. Once it opens, the four of us - myself, Seb, Greg and Dimmock - go inside. We position ourselves not to far from the yen store, but we're each in opposite parts of the room. Dimmock and I on one side, Greg and Seb on the other.

"Okay, now that we're settled, turn off the lights," I order.

"What? Sit here? In the dark? Are you mad?" Seb asks. I throw him a stern look. He shuts up, goes over to the switch, and turns out the lights. I then turn on my torch to guide him back to his place. Once he's there, I shut it back off. And now we wait. In silence.

And darkness.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

I think we've walked for approximately 15 minutes, non-stop, so it's now roughly ten o'clock. After a couple more, we finally reach the end. There's a ladder that they installed on the wall in front of me.

"Go on, Cabin. Climb," Clay orders. For effect, I turn to face him with a slightly worried look, nod, and gulp. I then put the torch between my teeth and climb. Inch by inch. Rung by rung. I have to be going up at least 12 feet. Ross is still right behind me. Once I come to the ceiling, I feel with my right hand. It's loose.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

There's a small light coming from the floor. White light. LED, probably.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

Pretty sure the stupid banker's gonna say something, so I put my hand over his mouth.

The Viewpoint of DI Dimmock

I think I hold my breath as I see the first crack of light. I crouch further down so I can't be seen and sneak over to the light switch.

The Viewpoint of Banker Sebastian Wilkes

I was going to be quiet! Why does this lunatic DI think he has to cover my mouth? I'd protest, but that would prove _his_ point. And spoil our cover.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

I fully lift the square that had been cut out of the floor. I swing my torch around. The cavalry did arrive. I signal them to remain hidden and stay quiet.

"All clear," I tell the men. First, I emerge. I then help Ross up. Then the first unknown, then the second, and finally, Clay. It's then that the lights turn on and everyone jumps up.

"Oi!" Lestrade calls, pulling out his gun. John pulls his on them, too. Dimmock points his as well.

"A trap! How'd this happen?" Ross calls out.

"I wonder..." Clay muses, having caught onto my ruse. I then take that as a cue to grab Clay... but instead, he knees me in the crotch. Never have I felt such pain.

"Sherlock!" John calls in alarm.

"Sherlock?" Clay whispers confused. He then jumps back down the hole and dashes into the tunnel. Dimmock, Lestrade, and Seb, oddly enough, have detained the rest. John kneels next to me to ensure my health.

"I'm fine, John. Stop John Clay!" I order in a higher octave that I haven't heard come from me since I was in primary school.

John nods and slides down the ladder.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

I hold out my torch in front of me to see ahead. I can still hear this Clay guy's footsteps echoing down the tunnel. I keep pursuit. His steps are getting louder, so I assume that I'm getting closer. I can now make out his back. I take the safety off my gun, to let this guy know that I will shoot if necessary. I then see that there's a door on the other end. He opens and closes it hastily, but before it fully closes, I throw my torch to the floor, sliding it down the dark hall.

It works, stopping the door from fully closing. Clay, however, isn't wasting any time, and I hear him running up steps. I open the door, pick up my torch, and continue the chase.

I hear yelling at the top. A woman's voice.

"Scotland Yard! Don't make another move!" she yells.

It's Sally! The back up worked!

...Or, so I thought. There's a crashing noise. And a scream. I push myself to my limits to get to the top. I find the pawn shop interior in ruins. A shelf had fallen...

On top of Sally.

"Sally!" I call, about to help her, but she stops me.

"Don't! Get 'im!" she orders. Still seeing Clay run down the street, I obey. I start running outside when a large truck whizzes down the street. I'm stopped at the sidewalk. There goes Clay. I see other coppers coming to me.

"He's gone down that alley! Full pursuit! Hurry!" I tell them. They head off, and I head back in. I then dial an ambulance. "Hello? Yes, this is Dr. John Watson. I have a woman who's had a large wooden shelving unit fall on top of her. ...Ribs down, just under her breast. Her left arm is free, right is trapped. ...Right. Just hurry. ... Jabez's Junk, just down the street from Tower 42. Thank you." I hang up. She's having difficulty breathing. "You'll be fine, Sally. You've probably broken quite a few bones, but you'll be okay. I've seen people live through worse. Trust me," I tell her. She smiles.

"Thanks," she replies shakily. "Did the others... keep up the chase?"

"They are. I sent them down where Clay went."

"Got it... I'm sorry."

"For what?" I ask gently.

"I went ahead... on my own... Heh. Look what all... good that did," she says. She starts laughing weakly, gasping a bit as she does.

"Yeah, guess you did run into a bit of trouble. But, facing him alone... that took guts. I'll give you that." She smiles again. "Look, don't try to talk anymore. Just concentrate on breathing, okay? And don't try moving anything, okay?" I ask her. She blinks. I'll take that as a yes. I then take her free, uninjured hand and start massaging it to calm her.

It's then that I hear the sirens.


	19. A Few Loose Ends

**A/N:** The ultimate chapter of this story (also a biggie). Thank you so much for reading! The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

It's been a couple of hours, but we've just gotten confirmation that Sally is going to be alright. She's going to have to stay here at the hospital for a while, may need up to a year for full recovery. It certainly could have been worse, though. She has a few cracked ribs, her right arm's broken, broke her left leg in one place, right leg in two. Again, though, it could have been worse. No spinal injuries, thank God.

The four of us - myself, Sherlock (who himself has some ice for his... groin), Greg, and even Seb came with us - are all sitting out in the waiting area near Sally's room. Dimmock went on with the other police officers to keep up the pursuit of Clay. Sherlock's voice has gone back to normal, mostly, though he's still wincing a bit. If this weren't so dreadful a night, I might be laughing about it. Might laugh about it in hindsight.

"If any of you would like to see the patient, you may. One at a time, please," the doctor informs us. Greg gets up and goes in first.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

"Hey, Donovan. How're you holding up?" I ask quietly, not sure how much strength she has left. With the casts and bandages and bruises, she just looks... broken. It's sad. I've seen her at her best with the Yard. And this isn't her worst... but it's close.

"I'll be alright. Feel like Hell..." she manages. Her voice is a bit shaky. Kinda raspy.

"Understandable." I sit down on a chair next to the bed. "Well, in case you hadn't figured out, you're on leave," I remark. She chuckles as best as she can. Good. Wanted to see that smile of hers. Remind her that she can, even with all this crap that's happened to her all of a sudden.

"Thank you, sir," she says. I nod and shoot her a smile.

"John and Sherlock are still here. So's the banker that helped us out," I tell her. She makes a bit of a face.

"Don't have much energy. I'll see Watson but..." she says wearily. I get what she's really meaning. She doesn't want to see Sherlock, nor does she want to see that banker bloke. What's it? Walker... no, Wilkes, that's it. Besides, John was the one who called the ambulance for her. I nod and head out of the room.

"She wants to see you, John," I say, peeking my head out the door. John stands and we switch out. I then sit down in his old seat next to Sherlock. "How's the ice working?" Sherlock gives me a bit of a glare.

"Fine," is all he mutters.

Of course he is.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

While I painfully admit this isn't the first time I've been kneed in the crotch before, it wasn't with such force. I suppose it's a good thing I never made any plans to procreate. I highly doubt this will prevent me from bearing children, if by some stray off chance I would have the desire to, if I were in a relationship where that would be a possibility, it would be wise to restrain from such activity for at least a month for full recovery. But I'm over analyzing things. At least, over analyzing unimportant things. What's really important is why Sally Donovan wishes to see John.

Yes, he was the one who aided her when the shelf fell on her. But I can't help but wonder what she wishes to speak to him about. I know it's truly none of my business... but it's John. Talking with Donovan. The one who for all the years I've known her has called me 'freak'. The one whom I later found out warned John to stay away from me. What does she want with him?

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"You wanted to see me?" I ask as I enter the room. Sally looks right awful, but it's no worse that what I've seen. I absentmindedly glance at the empty bed next to her... I have to shake my head a bit to clear it. Did _not_ want to remember _that_ particular day in the sandbox...

"Yeah. You alright?" Sally asks, noticing my lapse. I quickly nod yes and sit down in the chair I assume Greg sat it earlier.

"Yeah, fine. Fine. Just on occasion hospital beds give me the willies," I explain quickly, a bit under my breath. "Ah, so, what about you? What'd you need to talk to me about?" I ask in my more usual tone.

"I just wanted to thank you. You knew what it took to calm me..."

"Well, I am a doctor," I remind her. She hums a reply. She then sighs and and stares at the blank wall in front of her.

"They get 'im yet?" she asks. I sigh.

"No word yet," I answer. We sit there in silence for a little while. She seems very intent in her thoughts. As if she's gathering up to tell me something. No idea what it is.

"John?" she asks. Uh oh. This is one of the few times she's called me by name. This can't be good.

"Yes?"

"The doctors are saying I might be in recovery for over a year. Next year... someone's coming to London. Someone Lestrade and I don't like very much. Someone he practically hates..." she starts. I lean in a bit, resting my arms on my knees. Waiting patiently for her to continue. "Name's Gregson. He's a DI, too. I may not be back at work by the time he shows up... So, when he does..."

"Help Greg keep a cool head?" I finish. She looks at me and smiles, signaling that I answered right. Her face turns serious again.

"Yeah. Watch his back. And don't trust Gregson. Not outside of work, anyway. He does his job right. It's the mess outside that you need to watch out for," she warns. I nod solemnly. She gives me a weak smirk. "Thanks."

"Of course. And, in telling me this, I take it that Sherlock already knows or doesn't need to know?" I ask.

"He knows. You can tell him. I just wanted to tell you so you knew... and since I know you don't ask too many questions," she admits. I snicker a little.

"Really? I thought I seemed more like the questioning type!" I remark. She giggles. "Though, in all seriousness, I won't ask. Not my place. Not yet, anyway," I clarify. She nods and yawns a bit. I take that as my cue to leave so she can rest. "Rest easy, Sally," I tell her.

"Take care."

* * *

><p>It's Monday evening, I'm feeding Little Sherlock, and the other Sherlock has finally emerged from his room today. Once again, back to that mess of dark curls and grey eyes. Certainly more normal. Except... he's in a suit. Sure, he always dresses sharply, but this is a white tie suit. What's he wearing that for? Clearly, he can read my question on my face, for he answers right away.<p>

"I have a date."

"A date? So, you actually know what that means now?" I tease.

"'When two people go out together and have fun'," he quotes, remembering what I told him two years ago. "I'm off to that concert with Maria at the St. James Hall tonight." I'm a little taken aback.

"Maria? Well, that's all fine and dandy, but what about her father?"

"Mr. Wilson's showing signs of recovery and should be out in a couple weeks," he tells me.

"That's good. So, she knows who you really are now? She knows you're not really Mike Cabin?"

"Yes. I stopped by this afternoon."

"What?" I remark incredulously. I hadn't seen him leave the flat at all today! I tell him as such. He then looses one of his deep chuckles.

"You really don't expect me to be able to leave unnoticed?" he snarks. I roll my eyes. Must've used the door from the kitchen. Probably was trying to be quiet if Little Sherlock was napping. I sigh.

"So, you're making a date out of it? You like her?" I ask, pointedly. Sherlock gives me one of his 'obvious' faces.

"I enjoy her company. If anything, I feel I've at least gained another friend. I'm not entirely sure how the whole 'dating' process goes or what it fully entails since it's been evolving since the last time I went on one." If I were drinking something at this point, I probably would have spit it out.

"When was the last time you were on a date?" I ask. Sherlock starts looking about a bit sheepishly.

"...Eleven years ago," he admits.

"Really." He nods.

"I'd tell you the story now, but I must be going if we're to be on time," he says checking his mobile, the newer red one, that is. He then starts to head out the door. Before he does, I call to him.

"Best of luck, mate." He stops and turns.

"Thank you," he says sincerely. But he keeps standing there. "But, I take it there's something else you wish to tell me." I sigh. Here we go.

"Yes, there is. And you might want to sit down again." He does. I sigh again. I'm not sure how to go about saying this. I guess I could go for a lead in like before, but that time I sounded like some insane person. Maybe I should just say it? But, I don't want that weighing on his mind during his date... "You know what? Forget it. I'll tell you when you get back. Don't want to worry you. Go have fun with Maria." He stares at me for a second, worriedly. He then gets up and goes back to the door.

"Alright. Promise me you'll tell me what's going on the minute I return."

"I promise."

* * *

><p><span>The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes<span>

It's a bit colder than I had anticipated. Then again, I am lending Maria my coat for the time being. She wore a red gown, oddly enough, what with all the chaos surrounding that colour. Though, it does compliment her eyes.

"Oh, that was wonderful. I doubt I'll ever forget that concert," she muses. I hum in agreement. "Still not going to tell me how you got tickets? In the first section, I might add?" I smile wryly.

"Oh, it was none too difficult. The owner of the Hall just happened to have been one of my clients a while back and just happened to owe me a favour," I explain, which is true. A performer a while back was killed during rehearsal in the hall. Most evidence pointed to him, and I found the evidence that pointed away towards the true culprit: faulty set up. Purely a coincidental, accidental killing. Obvious.

"Any other connections you have, Mr. Holmes?" she asks keenly.

"Just Sherlock will do. And, yes, a few. Some from cases, some from Uni," I tell her.

"Like who?" she questions, acting like a curious child. It's rather amusing how enthralled she is in my stories.

"Tell you on the cab ride?" I offer. She smiles. It's a warm smile. A nice smile. Infectious. I then hail a cab, and we get in. She tells the driver her address, and we head off. "Well, probably one of my first actual cases was when I was fresh from Uni. Old acquaintance named Reggie stopped by my rooms at Montague street..."

* * *

><p>"So, he's a professor of genealogy now?" Maria inquires as we walk to her door. I nod<p>

"Yes. The case made him even more interested in his family's history. Wanted others to know the joy he did. Completely different than his previous major," I tell her.

"What was that?" she asks. I smirk.

"Accounting." She laughs. It's a sweet laugh. Bubbly, but sweet.

"Oh... I can't wait to hear more. Ah, that is, if I may be so bold as to ask..." she stammers.

"Of course," I reassure her.

"So.. does this make this a regular thing now? Are we a... thing?" she asks tentatively. I look at her quizzically.

"Specifics, please," I implore. She starts blushing. Clears her throat a bit.

"I suppose what I'm trying to ask is... does this mean we're dating? I mean, we only just met through the case a few days ago, and I don't really know you, and you don't really know me, and oh, just listen to me prattle on like some awful bimbo!" she finishes with a sigh, leaning up against her door. She then looks at me apologetically. "Terribly sorry. Didn't mean to jump to any illogical conclusions, or anything."

"Don't be sorry. There's nothing to apologise for. That was an honest query."

"One that you have an answer to?"

I pause for a moment to consider things. If I were to begin 'dating' this girl, I might learn a bit about the proper way of dating someone. I also might be able to keep some sort of personal experience file on relationships. Could help on cases when I need to get into a suspect or victim's mind. On the other hand, I wouldn't be spending as much time with John, I might have to either leave her alone to go on a case, or even bring her with me. Could put her in danger. She's not a trained retired military soldier. She has no medical training that I can surmise. What could she offer to a case? Well, she does have a keen mind, if she was able to figure where her father was on her own, so she must posses some sort of amateur detective skills. Plus she likes the same kind of music I do.

"Ah, Sherlock?" she says, snapping me back to reality.

"Sorry. Weighing options," I admit, simultaneously realising I probably shouldn't have said that. She smiles, though. I do find her smile to be friendly. I take a deep breath and count to five to ensure I'm perfectly calm. I then look her square in the eye. "I will be honest with you: I have very little experience with dating. And, if I were to pursue such an experience with you, you must understand that I'll more be treating it as a personal experiment. A sort of way for me to understand how things work. I do trust you. I do like you, but I believe it to be a more friendly feeling than anything else."

I can tell that she's disappointed, though she doesn't want me to see it. Her eyes give it away.

"However..." I continue. She starts up again. "I think it would be good for me to do so. So, if you'll have the patience for me..."

"Of course! I'll try not to go to fast. I mean, take things slow, I mean... Well, you know what I'm getting at, right?" she stammers again.

"That I do. Thank you."

"So, is that a yes then? Are we dating?"

"Yes-"

She embraces me again, nearly making us topple over onto the asphalt. Luckily, I'm sturdier than I appear and I'm able to catch her. She then suddenly lets go, standing in front of me, holding me at shoulder's length. I do hope she's not readying herself to punch me.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. And, I never did ask if hugs were alright..." she admits shyly.

"They're fine." She smiles again.

"So, see you later, then?" she asks.

"Later. Good night, Maria." She hands me back my coat.

"Good night, Sherlock."

* * *

><p>I arrive rather late back at 221b. John's still up, watching telly with a cup of tea.<p>

"Kettle's still hot," he tells me. I take him up on his offer and make myself a cup. I then remove my coat and undo my necktie. I decide to flop onto the couch and lie down after sitting during that whole concert. "Have a nice time?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. It was nice." I take a sip from my cup.

"That's it? Just nice?" John asks.

"It was rather enjoyable. The music was beautiful. Thankfully, everyone in the audience was quiet. It was a nice way to unwind after such a hectic case," I tell him as I take another drink. The hot tea is rather soothing on my throat after being out in the cold air.

"How was Maria?"

"Good. She loved the music as well. I escorted her home before coming back here. We took a cab."

"I meant, was it a successful date?" John clarifies.

"If by 'successful date' you mean 'did she want to go out again', yes," I say.

"And?" he inquires further.

"And? What do you mean, and?"

"What did you tell her?" I sigh.

"I told her that we could." John goes silent for a bit. I look up and see that he seems astonished. "We are dating." His jaw goes completely slack.

"Really? That's fantastic. Congratulations," he says, a bit shocked.

"Right. Thank you. So, there's my big news of the evening. What's yours?" I ask, remembering that he'd been meaning to tell me something as well. John goes quiet again and stares blankly at the telly screen. He's contemplating what he's about to say. Or, at least how. Whatever it is, it's been pressing on his mind for a while. "John?" I say, trying to get him to just talk to me.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Well, no backing out now. Here goes nothing.

"I don't think I can keep going out on cases for a while," I state. Sherlock stares at me and sits up slowly.

"What?" he asks quietly.

"Thing is... I'm not a bachelor anymore. I'm not just your flatmate anymore. I'm your widower flatmate with a five month old son. I can't just keep gallivanting off on cases like we used to. I have to take care of him. I'm all he has, family wise. I can't just keep calling the sitter, or asking Mrs. Hudson to watch him. I have to be there for him. I'm his father. The only parent he has. The only parent he'll ever know, probably," I explain as gently as I can. Sherlock keeps looking at me. It's a bit unnerving. I'm not sure if I've ever seen him so... effected by anything I've ever said before.

"So... what does this all mean?" he asks slowly.

"It means that I can't actively go out on cases with you. Not for a few years, at least. Not until he's about primary school age, or at least preschool age. I mean, if it's something that's a dire emergency, like, say, God forbid, Mycroft gets kidnapped, or something, I'll be at the ready."

"Oh, please. If my brother were ever taken against his will, he'd have the Government, the CIA and Secret Service out looking for him." I can't help but chuckle at how sarcastically he says that.

"Right. Well, even so. It has to be an absolute emergency for me to be on the front lines. For now, though... I guess I'm requesting to be put on the reserves. I'll still be here for you to use as a sounding board to bounce off of if you need me," I add, hoping that reassures him that I'm not going anywhere. It seems to, since he relaxes.

"Very well," he says after a bit of a pause. "So, I suppose this was your last case with me for a while then, hm?"

"Yeah. Is that alright?" I ask. Sherlock smiles a bit.

"All fine, John."

**A/N:** Thus ends our second case. Please leave your thoughts by reviewing or PMs. Next week, we'll enter our third case. Stay tuned!


	20. Epilogue: Clay

**A/N:** Okay, I lied, that wasn't the ultimate chapter. There is a little epilogue to this. Just for your viewing pleasure... (PLEASE do not reveal the details of this in the reviews, so as to avoid spoilers.) The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Mr. John Clay

I'm outta breath, but I can't let that stop me. I've got to keep running. That bastard army man could still be after me. As could the police. I know it's probably been hours, but I can't let them get me. I can't let them. I can't. Gotta get to him. Gotta warn him. I gotta. I'm running as fast as I can. Back alleys, old streets, abandoned buildings, I pass 'em all. Splashing through puddles, leaning against old brick walls every time I see those bloody blue and red lights. Hear the sirens. I keep going. Faster. Faster. Damn legs, carry me faster! I have to reach him. Have to tell him. Have to.

I finally reach the door. There's a caution barrier since it's a decrepit building... on the outside. I turn the doorknob and enter. Same old white walls. Same old fluorescent lights. Same old hall of doors. Our underground hospital. I walk down the hall. Hang right on the first turn. One, two, three, four. The fourth door to my right. I see the name of the patient on the door. That's the one. I enter.

There's the man. All bandaged up. Casts on both his legs still. His left arm's been let out, but his right's still covered. An IV drip is in his left hand. He's got an oxygen mask over his face. He's plugged into a heart-rate monitor. The steady beeping and his steady breathing are the only sounds in the room. His eyelids are still dark. He still has scratches and bruises from the initial injury over a year ago. His hair's gotten longer, a bit scruffy. His facial hair's grown a little, too. More of a shadow, really. We've tried to keep him groomed a bit. Gives him a sense of normalcy. I sit down in a chair next to the bed.

"...You awake? It's me, Clay."

He doesn't respond.

"I fear I've failed you. The League was abolished... I'm sorry."

He doesn't respond.

"Though I do have one piece of news that may be interesting: Moran's report can be confirmed. Sherlock Holmes is alive and well." I get up and turn to leave when I hear a small, deep voice...

"...Holmes...?" it whispers. He's responding. I turn back to him.

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes," I say. He faintly smiles. He then starts laughing slowly.

"Heh... Heh heh heh heh heh..."


End file.
